Breathe in,
breathe out,
there,
you have just successfully converted oxygen into carbon dioxide,
you have been productive,
you have done enough today to give the trees a job,
like a tired mother,
they go around un-doing everything you've worked so *******,
In,
out,
muscles relaxing,
tension releasing,
carbon dioxide expelled,
diluted by the oxygen,
in,
out,
lungs burning,
legs aching,
quick,
sharp,
inoutinoutinout,
hands on hips,
bent at the waist,
a long red ribbon laying broken at your feet,
inoutin out in  out   in    out,
calming,
slowing until it is normal again,
in,
o-,
your breathe catches,
heart beating faster,
eyes locked,
a great love epic in the making,
the carbon dioxide sitting in your lungs waiting for you to remember to release it,
screaming lungs silenced by a pounding heart,
insides so loud,
outsides completely silent.
OUT,
in,
out,
lungs comforted,
heart calmed by the brain,
continue walking,
normal,
in,
out,
the trees following behind you,
fixing all the air you have ruined,
and giving it back to you, once again.

******.  Come back,
you faithless little ****-tease, Muse,
you maddening author of my abuse.
Please don't amuse yourself this way.

I know it's love-hate,
de facto, inchoate.
But don't you know I seethe for seed
and writhe to write?

I love you, Muse.
There must be some mistake.
So end this wretched heartache
and for art's sake,
light my ******* fuse!

Mike T Minehan

They're a funny lot, some of these poets,
feisty feminists, dreamers, anti-money,
and even some who are very self-defecating
about themselves.
And then there's the literary, learned allusion lot,
and some who've got their eye on eternity, that's what,
and others who rub too much turps on the **** of their imagination.

But it's the long-winded poets who make me squirm,
and for god’s sake, give me a bottle of red wine when the ones
with blue-rinse hair get up to have their turn.
They're terribly nice, but they need an echidna
stuffed right up you know where - at least once, if not twice.

And give me another bottle of the red, even if it's rough,
or better still a whole case of that stuff,
just to protect me from those who bleed too much in poems.
Psychoanalytic stuff makes me paralytic
and I have to stifle groans.

But most of all, I like the poets with their tongues on fire,
the ones who lick lightening before they write
and who throw a sizzling poem down
like a thunderbolt from Zeus.

I like poems marsh mellow soft and bitter-sweet, too,
and those oozing with the juice. And if a poem's loud and flash,
so what? I like a bit of swagger, with shameless **** and ***.
And sometimes, I just like words that rhyme with licorice,
Dionysius, Priapus, Bacchus and preposterous!

Also, what the ****, a poem can even give offense.
Poets sometimes need to do this to stop indifference.
They call this poet's license, but really,
indifference is the only hell from which
us poets need deliverance.

Grab your Kerouac coat,
get on the road and
find everything you lost about yourself,
reclaim it from city street code.

Dust travels with the wind
when the wind is hesitant to go alone.
Along with the clouds that
cover the sky, cover the unknown.

Cars with driver and passengers
flee the mounting mess,
the debris of souls, money,
cash around the necks-

Choking on greed and new sofas,
deep porcelain baths, chunks of
meat: expensive, not kosher.

So grab that Kerouac coat
and get on the road.
Find something worth doing, before dusk becomes sweet-taste cold

i want to be
cool like
kerouac
                           bursting into a million
                           pieces with complete
                           abandon

oh jack.  
you were so wise
yet so lost in your
oblivion.
                                                                        i'm cool like kerouac
                                                                        lost in nostalgia for
                                                                        those aimless wandering
                                                                        years
not cool
cool
it's all the same
jack


                                on the road seeking a
                                new freedom
                                now that's cool
                                like far out zen cool
                                cool like ikkyu

Of all the stereotypical artists
Why did I have to pick the
Struggling writer?
Armed with a pen
And my mystic thoughts.
I could have been a great musician
Or a famous painter
But no!
I chose to let my words drive my creativity.
Into battle I go
With my .50-cent pen
And I let that be my battle weapon
It’s an extension of my body,
But it doesn’t protect me
Like I wish.
Plan B
My words,
Flow from my mind
But even that doesn’t protect me.
I let my heroes guide me,
Like Greek Gods.
But who protects me,
On the verge of defeat?
I’m a demi-god
But is that enough to prevail?
No!!
I must fight for myself,
My creativity,
And my voice?
HELP ME JACK KEROUAC!

In a blind of an eye,
we were flying with pigs
and swimming with pigeons.

Marching alongside famous carcasses
and singing gospels with the Pharisees.
We stood on water
and bathe on the pyroclastic flow.

A flock of ants gave us clothing,
as the army of sheep gave us a scolding.

We drank the Nile ‘till we got thirsty
and Bismarcked our way into the Revolution
and fought the Bolsheviks
alongside Lenin.

We cooked the ***,
cooked it right down to the marrow
until we were walking down to heaven
to rescue Rasputin.

Overlooking eucalyptus groves,
we made love,
while they were out with bullets
searching for a truce.