it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girl with the mousy hair
10,000 hipsters stand in the square
with ***** makeup and ****** flare
prayers fly into the dim lit sky
as a generation asks god  ‘why’
it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girl with the mousy hair
I sit here in despair
for a god of whom I did care
well, just a man with a master’s eye
for making all of the people sigh…
and now I sit here with my head in my hand
just trying to understand
what this world has come unto
can there ever again be skies of blue
and while *swishy in her satin and tat
frock coat and bipperty-bopperty hat
there can never be another like that –
the morning news brought a cold chill
as the icon of us undesirables
came to be laid at rest
it’s on America’s tortured brow
leaving us to sit solemn
as old records spin
telling tales of space men
and life on mars
a little china girl
and one man who feel to earth
it’s on America’s tortured brow
the fashionista of glam rock
the birther of Ziggy
the man who sold the world
forever changing
chameleon
in smart shoes –
spinning grooves
and scattered cd’s
tears slipping away
as memories already start to fade
it’s the freakiest show
look at those cavemen go
will they ever know
just who left us
take a look at the lawman
beating up the wrong guy
it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girls with the mousy hair
now she walks with a sunken dream
and the cream that once rose so high
so too will come the time to die
and as all of us let him go
there can be a bit of hope for those
who carry a torchy flare
to the girl with the mousy hair
and will sing in the dead of night
with face paint and a big spot light
******* and the party boys
come out with their fancy toys
but it’s a god-awful small affair
if you find you’re too square to care
‘bout the goblin kings sad depart
from this earth and from hipster hearts
see these kids have no loyalty
to a man who helped define me
when the world gave me a frown
for kissing boys in a dainty gown
ole Davy gave me peace
with a confidence that never ceased
oh Mr. Jones I’m in debt to you
for turning my grey skies to blue
now I’ll forever carry this torch
from green valleys to my own front porch
but it’s a god-awful small affair
it’s nice to know some of us care…
about the earth and sun and stars
and yes
there is life
on
     Mars –

“In a Station of the Metro,”
like “The River Merchant’s Wife,”
by Ezra Pound, with
“Mending Wall” by Robert Frost
Iambically Sound.

Yet sometimes the rhythm’s in threes
Preparing a quite different dish:
“Daddy” by Sylvia Plath, and
Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Fish.”

“What we need now,” he said,
“Is new ideas.” They started to fall
like snowflakes on that late sharp
November evening when we first

saw the altered light, over the Alpine
lake surrounded by cities who’s
population, as discerned through
quick perusal of the census charts,

fluctuated with unprecedented
irregularity, reminding you of
Andolian snow-capped mountain peaks.
You  followed bits of this, like normal,

But found a pattern did not emerge.
The orange was sharp, ****, and
beautiful. Thousands were pulling
their Geiger counters out of closets

filled with unused sports equipment,
scarves, cleaning supplies, and brick-a-brac.
We pointed to tell-tail streaks left down
the hallway, but the planters never bloomed.

The possibility of free declamation anchored
And lucid, inescapable rhythms
Do have meaning. They're strong as rocks
In the deep-toned Aeolian mode
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
A Poet could not but be gay,
The Impotence to Tell –
Still makes a poem a surprise!

Weeks past, I overlooked
A pass you made on the overpass;

Now it comes to pass you touch
my *** under the underpass,
and under my underpants.

These things
These things come
These things come in
These things come in threes.

Now
Harder than a Portuguese defibrillator
                           to rhyme
Harder than Chinese algebra later
                   than bed time
So hard it’s long, no longer
“Well hung” and you are coming
atop my tongue.

I think
             the folks at Liquors.com
are wondering why
no one clicks on
“12 cocktails to drink
              before you die.”

Our house has a periodic table and a rotating chair,
we sweep things under the carpet here
(tell you later about our floor).
For this mile, we issue another’s shoes,
before we pull the rug out from under you.
We’ve replaced the iron curtains with Microsoft© Windows,
and a roaring fire wall.
Don’t mind the heat, stay out of the kitchen:
there is a bun in the oven, a half-baked plan,
and a blogging fan.
Please feel free to use the facilities: now including
a spring shower of light, a renovated Bathist, and a sink hole.
Feel the Air Jordan hair conditioner by the revolving door,
Through ducts taped to the vast glass ceiling,
All supported by a flexible selling floor.
Some margin call it the broken house (sic.)
It’s not broken, it’s fixed.