she inquires why I write so many poems,
easy comes reply:
It gives me a fantastic living,
it makes and gives, each poem,
a calculation, a reconciliation
of who I am...a miner of the
mineral wealth in my veins

a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless

morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-on tasting for the summer coming,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded

the first of the season red stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are gender identifiable

my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt of the basement

the burnt crumbs of illegal brioche toast
hidden on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed,
is yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things is just a fragrance too far

even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
make a vice presidential declaration:

she smells, I manually stink, each, glower shower, nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass,
exhume and send away this odor now christened,

nameless and shameless


11:47 28/4/19

there are so many
types of pockets,
especially for jeans.
my favorite is the “ticket pocket,”
that little pocket stitched
inside a bigger front pocket,
maybe also called a
“watch” pocket,
supposedly
a cowboy designation
for safeguarding
their chained pocket watch receptacle.

who ya kidding?

anyway, a second naming
more to my liking:

seems cowboys put their train ticket where they could easily
retrieve them as the conductor conducted himself properly,
asking each passenger after every stop to show his ticket.

so it came to be,
Levi gave us pockets of variety,
durable, baggy ones to
carry our jewels comfortably,
one for tightly ticket embracing,
and further inspired that
sewn on the hat of
every railroad conductor,
a russian motto,
Trust but Verify.

I myself use the ticket pocket for
my keys,
which in any other jeans pocket, movement
causes cruel and unusual pain,
but not if that huge bunch of jangling
instruments of torture are tightly tucked
in their own prison interior,
incapable of doing hot yoga or
any other stupid exercise requiring
Bo jingling jangling movement

Just don’t you dare ask me
what the purpose of each key be,
it is just a tortured secret for men
in the private parts of their soul,
to confess that keys carried
for three houses ago,
are a metallic proofs that men
are indeed as dumb
as women think they are...

show me a rusted lock somewhere,
I got an hour to try ‘em all

twenteesventh.
you write of dismembered leaves,
enhaloed lust(***)
pains too sweet because they’re youthfully incomplete,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
dry rain droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
edible didactics, teaching “frosted flakys”
poetic methadone methodology,
poems hats with rhyming lyrics  
that taste like that burnt eyelids colored
a blood stained mustard yellow, (yum),
beyond burger veggie based satyrs,
the happy gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,
***** *******, you want an
infernal cataclysm...

really?

dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other Olsonian beauties,
like I write with succinct passion,
me, who gets eaten alive by buggers saying
“too long,” “too long,” “needed a mid-poem napt”

non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why

PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?

jes kiddin’ a leetle

Stephanibaby
you scam me in so many places,
urgently ubiquitous,
contact me ASAP
on gmail,
cause we got so much in common

you want to borrow some bucks to;

ransom your brother,
claim a bank account
you'll gladly share,
buy your own freedom from
a Nigerian pirate,
my oh my
what an imagination,
ever try you hand at
writing poetry?

babe,
you so deserve a poem
all your own
Ms. Stephanibaby

we got so much in common,
we both scam the hearts of man,
you profit and for gain
inflicting some pain
free of charge

me, with words,
free of charge,
just hoping they will
charge someone's heart

I see they deleted you account,
no worries babe,
you will always have a place
permanently here
now that
I have immortalized
you girl
in free words of
humorous contempt

“still on the fence
about you being
a mortal man
or a God.”

well thanks for that,
and did I mention
it’s a fence style called
picket you put me on?

which I can attest,
makes me feel both
majestic & definitely humanistic,
cause a picket up one’s ****,
is proof still that this man,
unlike god,
has not lost his “touch”
so to speak...

no, not a political divide crossed.

no, not switching fandom to the
hated other crosstown team,
with the clownish bobble head
thing.

once a meat eater, a meat eater
for life.

stolidly, boringly straight, waaay
too late
to switch that side.

the switch referred to herein is more
profound, straining boundaries of a
decades long term relationship.

I desire  to switch sides of the bed we
sleep on, after decades of habit, that
transferred with us when we traveled,
moved etc. To each Our Side was the
Natural Order of Things, a higher law,
immutable, constitutional and ranked
higher than the Ten Commandments.

over time, my side sank beneath the
excess weight of growing old with
bad lifestyle habits…a bad back, an
aging frame, core muscles that seem
to have been decored, made a new
firmer bed a necessity,

when we called 1-800-Mattress, we two
social security retirees, were shocked,
shocked! at the hole in our budgets
such an expenditure required.  We would
be forced to survive on bread (brioche)
and water (Pelligrino) for weeks, our only
condimentable affordable would be margarine,
a pseudo butter made in chemical factories.

so, she refused.

I sank into deep despair, for who could deny
her finger pointing “J’accuse” where responsibility
for this truly lay (lie?).

marriage counselors demanded exorbitant premium
prepayments, Medicare said ha ha, and United Health
Care was united in their ***** opposable *******
but eloquent “Mais Non!”

As I write this, Climate Comservationists have confirmed
my sinking side is now receding at a rate of 4 cm/year.
The implicit implication was at the Great Melt Flood of 2050
that was coming to sink us, I would not be quietly floating down
the Hudson River out to a South Pacific isle, but would join Jason Bourne in the green crystal clear waters of the nearby East River, but unlike Jason, I can’t hold my breath for twenty minutes, ergo and ipso facto, I am doom-ed.

So I have started a GoFundMe to obtain a new airy mattress  capable of variable soft/hard differential setting on each side, with an inflatable air pumping gizmo just for the end of days.

Thanking you in advance and be assured lol your contributions will remain not anonymous.

Yours, Extra, Sincerely,

Ogdiddynash (Ogdiddynatsch)

oh drat,
you are reading this,
my little kitty ditty,
jinxing my super duper secret plan,  
my walter mitty,
if no one reads this pretty
then the algo-rhythm
sure to pick me out of sympathy
to be the
poem-of-the-day!

so thanks for nothing, Jinxy McJinxFace!

do not give me away
with a finger or a heart,
lest the algo smells a rat
realizing that I am artificially intelligent too!

Ogdiddy Nash

the doctor cautioned me…

no rough S?x my boy, your coeur très ancien,
ain’t up to the task, in fact, i urge you to forgo
the goings on you love to write about, leave them
words on the page, six to eight inches (!)  from the
tippy part of your…nose; for distance makes the heart
grow fonder, life longer, when you ticker gets that
‘lost that loving feeling’, keep it lost for now, cause
I no longer make home visitations and cancelled,
I did, the refills on your ****** scrip, keep your loving
confined to the twenty six alpa-bets, so you grow
old, well, alive, cursing my name repeatedly with
a strong *******, and I’m sure He’ll be listening,
cause I know He appreciates a **** good poem!

the jew in you,
something
you long suspected,
or long lamented.

too bad,
the absence of
this moniker if it  
ain’t applicable directly
to your sorry ***.

after all who doesn’t
want to be among the
ch-ch-chosen peeps?

this blessing
in disguise,
it’s very special
to be hated by
almost,
everyone.

hatred,,
the great equalizer,
highlighting your
choicest features
race, gender, roman nose,
etc., etc., etc.

but like the song said,
though somebody may
hate unlucky you,
everybody, no exceptions,
hates the jews.

everyone knows
the jews own the banks.
everybody hates the banks
who leave you on hold,
leaving you, wondering why,
they won’t give you back
at the ATM, the good money
you lent them,
so you must be
minimum 10%
shrewish (shhhh-jewish) or
whaat! why?

yup, your deposit is
a liability on their books,
(they owe it back to you)
so you too are
a moneylender,
congrats!

welcome to the club,
the club of being
a liability.

we jews travel
around the world,
chased out from
almost everywhere.

so we invented the
around-world-cruise,
and the world gave
us steerage class
to remind us,
even the jew in you,
that’s OUR special place.


postscript:
(All) Jewish Lives Matter!
Oy!
(don’t get me started...)

the permanent shaving cut (why god made humans cut)

~for my father~

in the class of men
who need a scrubbing shave
I am, a twice a day him-hymnal

to keep the face pliant,
the cheeks smoothied,
in case some young children
come visiting, needing kissing,
by a funny-foolish Poppy

hell, I shave before I go to bed
cause I sleep shirtless,
my chin’s scruff cuts my shoulder
that badly, that here I am, awoken,
writing ******* poetry at 5:09am

but the specific cut requesting a poem
all for its lonesome is actually a newlywed pinch,
where the straying, whirring blades grabbed ahold
of the soft tissue flesh beneath the eyes,
where the no-sleep, permanently black stained “circles” live,
those tree rings of the human body

shaving cuts...what’s the big deal!

this one painful, sending out a weather alert to the brain, saying:

“Hello old friend, this red busted blood cell,
that’s me, is now a permanent resident,
a red badge of stupidity (yours),
a forever face fixture that will be
a pallbearer at your funeral,
jump into your grave with you,
for one last final deep dive drive-by screaming”

so now when I shave,
this perfect red light signal of a cautionary tale,
smiling remindingly to stick to the round and fleshy fat parts,,
pale red cheekiness where the only natural indentation are
two **** dimples - the ones no longer visible,
under the stubble of a life now measured in
too many decades

why do we cut ourselves?

(now grow serious)

not for fashion,
a scratcher beards an even greater skin-ny irritant,
this human gesture, this marker of the
daily changing leaves coloring,
this forced to mirror-address
who is that person vision we’ve never before met,
with ridged furrowed forehead,
and every day older markings appliqués,
summarizing a race to some ending,
that pulling weeds from the ground
or the **** grounds of your face,
is endlessly pointless but necessary,
a god given way to say fool!
you’ve been given a mo’ day,
and another night, wake up,
do something useful

kiss those babies too much,
write many short poems,
do a goodun,
remember,
this day,

for when you see that red dot mark of living,
it’s just another signage of closer to dying,
no use in denying, use this memory well
to make yourself attractively useful and

maybe,
some other human apparition might
come along and you’ll be reminded
smooth is better n’ gruff,
and thus shaving
helps perpetuate
the species.

Ogdiddynash

The P Propensity


this benighted dishwasher,
is familiar with the
P Propensity Theorem,
seeing as he
(think grizzled, unshaven guy in the back of the restaurant cleaning plates)

invented it

the need to solve
for the need to P,
while undertaking prep
for the great dishwashing,
is mathematically soluble:

N, the number of ***** dishes
D%, the variable percentage of how *****,
           (necessitating pre-scrubbing, or not,)
M, the meal, breakfast lunch or supper,
  (a modifier of N)
Ba2, bladder age squared)

formula:
if P = N(D%) {M_}
    b  [where M1 is breakfast, M2 is lunch etc.]


is >1,

then

better get
an adult diaper

this little poem mine
sadly, died upon the vine,

tho watered and sun'd,
tended and tendered,
to and from your neglect,
it sadly surrendered,

from which there is
no respite or surviving

three or four sprouts tall,
grounded, now homeward bounded,
from dust to dust,
earth to ash,
this little poem ******,
to the dustbin condemned,
my sweetest, petitest, little trash,,

never to be read again.*

0ggdiddy Nash

Short Term Memory Loser
<>
the joke on you,
with foolish hobgoblins hobbled,
them youse~peeps whom to themselves
think “oh, I’ll never forget this precise
precious momentary
fragment”

haha ha on you!

more fragging(1) of our minds
into piecemeal shards

claiming, boasting, that it will
live forever
within this rented
storage unit, leased
& renewed analy,
upkeep-no-needed

haha ha on me,

the ironic ticking pricking of
my brain, when least expected,
in my kitchen sinking awaning,
days, the poem potions potentials,
fly to mind with the fast and furious,
with missile accuracy entering, gleaming,
but explode before I can script the scribble,
and the notional dissipates into ****** ashy,
left with a title, no body, a perma-headless ***
mulish poet hapless, sap~less, sticky stuck
with no idea what my intended writ
was to be it, and I consign that.title
to death by draft, never to be
credited created or crafted,

cause that’s how bad my
short term memory has
devolved

or more dimply put,
slam, bam, thank you man,
the whole blows up faster
than one can utter our
American anthem,

*** IS WRONG
with the Dallas Cowgirls?

he named me after him
he named me after him,
his best ditty ever,
my inheritance,
a laughing brook of
guppy royalties,
that keep our Labrador
reasonably well fed poetically

and of course his name

his name,
which was not so much inherited,
as deposited, X-mark-the-son

they ask,
no, they
declarative announce
as fact,
answered even as asking,
tho their voices rising
in a pretend-questioning format,

are you as good as he was?
Oh no, of course not.

I'm merely the son,
He was the father,
between us now
the celestial
Holy Ghost of Rhyming

bring her an ensemble,
brioche and cafe au lait
'À la manière des Français'

an unexpected surprise,
on a weekend
Sunday-in-bed-celebration

the messenger, me,
recommends  le dunkin',
insertion of the bread into
the morning liqueur pre-sipping

"I don't like wet bread"

she states officially,
in tone strident and reproving,
even gravelly gravitas-aly,
and to me-self, inside thinking,
softee softee...

what other dark secrets doth this ***** harbor?

march 26 2017 10:11 am

asked what I desire for breakfast,
replied, scones and crumpets from the
good ole U. of K. with a cups of celebratory
Jamaican coffee  (tee-hee)

she did not even bother
to snort in an elegant
derisory manner,
just walked away,
just turned on her
high heeled sneakers,
(a very worthy sight),
“prithee, grilled cheese sandwiches,
it is then,”
quoting the Bard

alright.

No need to ask me which cheese,
she experientially knowledgeable
in my hard milk acculturation,
one will be home grown ameddican,
real cheese, not Kraft “cheese food”
the other swiss, unless
smoked mozzarella is in the larder,
(who has a larder anymore?)

as I am in matters of cheese,
I’m a transgender, formerly bisexual,
but still a questionable, open minded,
but globalist willing to
entreat any country that values
cheese above war

haggard and black eye circled,
I stood before her,
(in the special silence of the shocked
"I can't believe what I'm seeing")

The Goddess Witch of the Bathroom Magic Mirror,

in my awoken normal deplorable e-state,
taking a poll of the the toll
the working years had blessed me with,
crow's feet nests, red eye eggs, and forehead furrows
colloquially called the Mississip-pis,
saggy used as a compliment,
rotunda my unsupine fecund shape,
as in,
"what a nice generous cowling^ you have!"

a nose that looked clown-borrowed and improperly affixed,
looking like the wreckage of a ship
that accidentally crashed
into a harmless oil tanker
a three-times-my-size destroyer
named Life

the bathroom mirror looked upon me
with haughty askance,
imputing and impugning my
raggedy Andy human exterior,
until it at last
laughed so hard,
it cracked into a 1000 pieces

as shards bloodied my hands
and now, in addition,
checker-boarded my scraggled unshaven cheeks,
a voice from the bedroom screeched:

did you ask again the mirror
who's the fairest
in all the land
*******?

Warned you,
she hates when you take
advantage of her,
with your white male privilege,
calling her,

The Goddess ***** of the Bathroom Magic Mirror

clearly a simple case of mistaken identity,
upon looking in the mirror at myself
all I growled was
"you one ugly pasty white *******"

<•>
8-22-17
1:11am

<?>

god gave us little toes so when we are rushing our socks on,
the little toe has something to cling to, and a way to say, hey!
slow down

god gave us powerful pinkies, the littlest of the five fingers,
to give us balance, and reflection, that being upright
is a good thing

god did not give us eyes in the back of the head,
because he forgot to order the integrated circuitry
and was too embarrassed to admit it, but if you look closely,
you can see where they were supposed to go...oops,
no can do

<?>

she, a voracious vicarious, reads a new book almost daily
when I dismissed the time spent as an investment
with a finality of no return, she demurred, purred,
au contraire, my dove, every book expands the who of me
and with so many ahead, yet unread, I'll live forever

<?>

she inquires why I write so many poems, easy comes reply:
It gives me a fantastic living, it makes and gives, each poem,
a calculation, a reconciliation of who I am...a miner of the wealth in my veins

woman asks a why-oh-why
while-I’m-driving-interrogatory,

seeing that tears are rolling down
old poet’s face as we transverse
these United States,

on I-80, Heading to San Francisco,
over the George Washington Bridge,
commencing in Teaneck, New Jersey,
2,906 miles, not including getting lost.

Are you sad for any reason particular?
Are we lost already?

weeping for my country, for with every mile,
see amity and wisdom disappearing,
out the open window,
both by wind taken,
both forsaken,

our route is clear,
but I see what
I most fear, we are not lost,
but my country,
our poor country
is,
everywhere good people,
desperately seeking mercy now!

the Wonder no longer…
I no longer wonder

the whose, or is it the who’s, the whys, and even
an occasional wherefore art thou, and what’s their real name,
are they alive or passed, from whence they came, or,
the origins of their names, the name of that movie where
what’s his name fell in love with blonde from that tv show,
with the detective and the raincoat who always smoked
a cigar though was never seen with match or tobacco,
these mysteries that nagged, burrs that came mid-sentence,
causing grown people to curse and smack their head, now,
blessedly put to bed in seconds depending on the goodness
of your internet connection…

but now I wonder if the world is better off with instantaneous
information much of which is hooliganism and mis and dis,
made-up-as-you-go-along but now recorded as gospel truth

well recall the happy, romantic nature of falling in love across
the library table, secret smooching in dusty stacks of tomes, or is it tombs, that were never read but contained the secrets of the universe…

but never for too long, for repair and restoration I do take
a triple dose of Prevagen,

when and if,
I remember

10:06pm and they're coming at me again
a chorus demanding a chanson,
holding my brain for ransom,
the twenty six against the world's every languages' dictionary,
cacophony of a single voice demanding
provide pleasure of the interior mind's designery
obey obey the elemental electric eleventh finery
commandment
and
write anything that honors the poet's day
write something about remanding
*the world back to where we all belong

7/30
11:20 am


no luddite me.

no longing for the good old days.

from one oft abused little phone,
I, while bathing royally
in my cowardly four
legged lioness tub

got my music,
my reading list,
sports pages,
and if so inclined,
shoot off a quickie,

a poem for your
grateful nation
appreciation.

all of which
causes me to
issue a heartfelt
happy cry apology
dame as the
of the prehistoric
techie avanti,
Flinstoni

yabadabadoo!

which does not deserve
the opprobrium returned of

"Shut Up, Please"

coming from the the galley
kitchen where the women are

doing their whatever
gossipy kitchen thing.

not to be accused of non-responsiveness,
I, reply as the techno Fourth Tenor,

"can't hear you, why don't you text me!"

happily issuing another,

but in a more
thoughtful basso,

yabadabadoo!

quietly whispering  
a self satisfying
follow up

vincerò!


ogdiddy nash

many women do yoga.
many men do ***.

women prefer,
ah, never mind,
you know how that ends!

No?

If we draw a
Venn diagram,
one circle, yoga,
the other, ***,

in the middle,  
overlapping sector,
is the
Venn Zen Intersextion

“Your honey plenty crispy”

nothing in the fridge to eat,
I, Grumpy Mcgrupy, intone
to those responsible for its
fulfillment and my well being

the greek yogurts all have passed
their expiration date, silent assassins,
the cheese bin international emptied
of American and Swiss citizens,
the remainder wrapped in white in
languages not spoken

the produce drawer, naked in its drawers,
except for a sweet Vidalia onion from Georgia,
which is just no good for fresh direct eating,
besides, my tears, copious already
at my state of famination ruination

final recommendation textual arrives,
a solitary fresh honey crisp appe in the fruit bin,
which in desperation I inhaled while
writing poetry in the bathtub

text my pleasure at this last resort,
with a shopping list to which the response comes
in a tone of high moral ground, teasingly defensive,


Your honey plenty crispy!

rendered speechless but her words
added too,
to the shopping list...

you write of dismembered leaves,
pains too sweet,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
quiet rain, droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
tastes that burn eyelids colored in
blood stained mustard yellow,
the gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,

really?

dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and others, more weirder too,
wonderfully inexplicable,
other jimmy olsonian beauties,
non-lexical non-commonsensical
ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries,
and then you wonder why,

PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?