the things that we say
have no matter, they
come out like slobber
or slather, our pro-
pensity to comment
lacks moment and reason,
our ideas are defined
by the temps and the season,
follow me, brothers, to print,
take off your glasses and squint

in times when joy seems
furthest from your mind,
you guffaw the concept
and refuse to climb,
but your friends remind
you of us, all of us, you,
me, and our friends,
don't get left behind,
we're struggling upward
with no immediate goal,
we need you with us
and you are there

government fraud,
it is there,
where the rabbit hole
turns into the worm hole.
do not let your fantasy linger;
when the guy in the restaurant
can't pay his bill,
the waitress does not decide

when I encountered you,
you didn't know to jump to the next line,
you just stood there, and
asked me if I was for real,
I am, and before,
I only had a small
perception of what
I was doing

when we scroll
though this and that
looking for hearts
and minds similar
to our own, we are
full of hope, but the
reality is that there
is just too much stuff
out there, so we often
confine our search
to the first five words.

Have you ever heard
a parking lot bird
rejoice in the sun?
No, parking lot birds
don’t have much fun,
constantly busy
looking for scraps
that aren’t really there,
they stare at the
undersides of cars,
they peck at nothing
there’s no food there,
no plants, few bugs,
they ought to be
full of despair,
but a parking lot bird
never complains,
and sings as if
he hasn’t a care.

They fly under cars
looking for crumbs
from hungry bums
who eat their meals
behind steering wheels,
then open the door
and brush their laps
and parking lot birds
grab up the scraps.

Have you ever heard
of a parking lot bird
being struck by a car?
No, by far, they boast
the most incredibly skilled
virtual acrobatics
of low-flying flight,
they flit and alight
and never are killed,
none are hurt,
they all fly free,
when you crank up
your trusty Subaru
they always manage
to get away from you.

A parking lot bird
hasn’t much to hope for,
lost from his woods
and full of woe, he
just has nowhere else to go;
they grew up under
the big marquees
of some of the finest
groceries, and
they just keep singing,
never complaining,
hoping one day
you’ll bring them a scrap,
a morsel, a tidbit
a crumb or two,
leave it on purpose,
it’ll be good of you.

I drive my head into
the buttress of Inko
to prove the truth;
it makes no sense
to you or me, we are
programmed to survive,
we make up words, ignoring
obvious cautions, and
delve, we delve

trudging through the snow
I find a place where I can
see the moon, how it relates
to this cold, and alternately
bleak and beautiful landscape
I don’t remember you, I don’t
even know your name anymore,
why should I?

There is nothing like
a bathroom window
where you can sit comfortably
and watch the snow
piling up on the branches
of the barren trees
in your yard;
I once met the people
who invented thermopane;
thanks, guys! it looks
really cold out there,
I think I’ll bake
some cookies.

The Second Coming by W. B. Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were waxed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come around at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

I got my new hearing aids
today. What? You didn't know
that I was just nodding
to be nice, but I really didn't hear
anything you said. Everything
will be different now. You won't
get away with all that **** anymore!
What?

give me drama
in my shoes
give me drama
with your boots
give me drama
like the blues,
give me drama
in cahoots
with understanding
of the current
situation right at hand
understanding of the history
at everyone’s command
give me drama
with your mouth
give me drama
with your hand
give me drama
with your music
give me drama
with your band
it’s not that I am bored
or want anything that’s bad
it’s just drama makes me happy
and drama makes me sad
and I need these strong emotions
I need ‘em just because
in all today’s accounting
I’m not quite the man I was.

give me drama
when you talk to me
drama when your mad
give me drama
when you look at me
and tell me
I’m so bad
give me drama
when you yell and say
you’re never coming back
give me drama
in the laundry room
and drama in the sack

I need drama like
I need the air
drama just to breathe
drama on my podium
drama on my knees
give me ALL your drama, mama,
give it to me please

There are 2341 chords
you can play on a guitar,
sometimes, I feel like
everyone is just playing
their personal chord,
maybe if we all just
concentrated on the
usual ones, we could
actually get musical

I was in my room
laying quietly
in the dark,
waiting for sleep
to come
when I heard
him crying in the street;
I went out
in my nightgown
and stood,
as still as I could,
in a patch of light
in the yard;
he came by again
and stopped
and we beheld
one another silently
for a long time;
then I went to him
and touched him
on the arm;
he followed me in
and without a word
took off his clothes
and climbed
into my bed;
we touched, tentatively
and stared into
each other’s eyes;
the streetlight
coming in the window
made his features
gaunt, and loneliness
shared the room with us;
after we made love,
he dressed and went out
the door, silent still;
I went to the window
and watched him walk away
crying again,
louder now.

I want to answer
every one of these poems
as if they were letters
in my inbox, I, a minor
celebrity with no staff;
I would get up early
and read each one;
I would encourage you all
to not despair, or ever
stop writing, and above all
to realize, there is no shame
in wanting, hurting, being
over wordy with petitions,
baring your soul, or
hurling your visions
into the poemsphere;
we are mutually stuck
and this is such a great way
to get traction

the last time I saw Moon,
standing naked
in the holding tank,
he was screaming
at the top of his lungs,
he was screaming
for the man to relent,

he had come to
the end of his road
and he was pleading
for a chance to return,

but the man just jeered
and pushed him, brutally,
over the edge;
my brother has gone,
my father, too,
no peace in their final hour,
turning the last corner,
their discovery abrupt,
horror and headlong descent;

can Lazarus plead
the rich man's cause?
though no bridge
may span the gulf,
might prophets yet
reach living ears,
the risen Jesus,
glorified?

Before the time
that men besought
themselves to write
their tales,
there was a man
who dreamed up
letters.

He sat alone
beside a rock
upon a prairie
conjuring ideas
that swirled within him;
the more he thought
the more the thoughts
demanded words;
the more the words
demanded letters,
the more he thought.

Soon he found he couldn't stop. All around him charcoal scribbling began to appear. His friends laughed and said, "What is that? Even a child can draw stick figures. Those are just scribbles." They couldn't see the pattern. The letters were just crazy lines.
Once when he stood before them and read the scribbles they laughed some more and slapped their legs and thought him a clever storyteller. But they never dreamed he had written those ideas down.
The prairie turned white and he would walk around stamping the letters large, with his feet, in the snow. And they laughed some more at him stamping in the snow. And when the spring came, he took the shoots of the new reeds and soaked them and rolled them between two special stones and sharpened a feather to a narrow point and with the syrup from a dark blue flower, he etched his letters as tiny as he could onto the dried papyrus. And the young ones, the ones who could see his markings without squinting, were silent and watched him and wondered.

"What are you doing?" asked a bright-eyed girl.
"I'm keeping my thoughts," the young man replied. "Want to try it?"
"No," she giggled. "I'm afraid. They may make a fool of me if I keep them."
"Oh, **," he said, "you may be right. There's risk in this endeavor. But not much now, since I'm the only one who can see them when they're kept."
"Then I shall sit with you and see what you have done."
The two sat upon the rock and the young man asked, "Would you like to have a name?"
The maiden giggled again. "I have a name," she said. "It is Ariel."
"It is good to know you, Ariel, and with the birds your mind does soar, but would you like to bring your name down to the earth where you can see it?"
"See my name? That is strange, this thing you say. The name I have is only there when another says it."
"But I can make your name appear upon this rock."
He put his hand upon the rock and looked into her eyes.

I thrash any poor schooner
whose plight I encounter
and toss their bounty to the winds;
me, I sail with the words behind me
as wind, I have worlds to conquer
I’m off to anywhere, Malta?
a Burmese mountain top?
the beleaguered streets of
South Chicago, a brothel
in Yokosuka, the sties of Iowa,
the fertile fields of Mendocino,
meet me there, and we can talk

religious conclusions
are often correct
though disdained
by profusions of
the charged intellect;
the reason we’re here
is not so mysterious,
we’re products of a God
who is often less serious
than we hoped he would be;
he may be just curious
like you and me

things seem to be
looking up in dreamland;
my assassins, usually appalling,
must be on vacation, and
there is more flying,
and less falling;
the big green puddle
coming from under
the refrigerator
receded on its own,
and the wild fox
running around
on the living room floor
found his own way out
through an imaginary cat door,
which is why
I didn’t get up
this morning
at the usual time, but
turned over again
and dove back in
for more.

████ when █ ██████ feeling,
██████ a ██ ███ ██████ reeling,
and ██████ in a ██████ today,
I ██████ ███ or ██████ to say.

Chicago alley
fire escape
mournful sax

Because you are so busy
with the way I ought to be,
measuring me up against
that standard constantly,
you haven't taken time to get
up close and try to see
just who it is I really am
and what I want to be.

You would not believe
how strong my fingernails
have gotten, I can gouge walls,
tear through flesh,
and flick incredible distances
all while laughing

When I was a boy, a big part of winter was going to the ice-skating rink in Winnetka when everything was frozen. We roller-skated in Glenview and bowled in beautiful downtown Northfield. Weather did not deter us. But when I turned about fourteen, this huge wind came along, and I went out and stood in it, and leaned into it, and after that I was not the same. I forgot all about school and in my heart became a wanderer. I left home one year later, off to see the world. I have had a wonderful relationship with the wind ever since.

I believe that a haiku
is not just seventeen syllables
written in three lines, but
a poem, with three lines
that present distinct ideas
tied together, and brought together
by the poet artist,
who can constrain him or herself
and preferably there would be
one idea on the first line, 5,
enhanced on the second, 7,
and then both tied together
in the third, 5, totaling 17
so,
let us try harder
make sure that we are writing
interesting stuff

(or whatever, I don't know)

from Mary Oliver

“Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone, with not a single
friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore
unsuitable.
I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds
or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of
praying, as you no doubt have yours.
Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit
on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost
unhearable sound of the roses singing.
If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love
you very much.”

(for erin and Kalliope)

I'm swimming alone in the river of time
Do rondy rondy rondy, do rondy rhyme,
Remember me as the one who swims here,
It's par, silly sage, nose buryin' time.

I must keep swimming to keep my nose even
With a point on the shore that I think must be mine,
I swim and I swim, and I never stop swimming,
Staying abreast of that arbitrary line.

When I swim over towards it, I start drifting back,
It never gets closer when I swim the oblique,
I turn back and swim harder against the strong current
No closer but even with the shoreline I seek.

I want to turn over and float on my back
And drift idly down, feet first in the stream
With my hands intertwined 'neath my head as I aimlessly
Seek circumstances that are more serene.

With my toes I could point and turn this way and that
Watching cloud pictures pass in the heavenly blue.
But wait! There is something I remember from stories
Of a waterfall somewhere. I think that it's true.

The waterfall stories are full of destruction,
Mangled bodies all broken on sharp rocks below,
So, I swim and I swim and I just keep on swimming,
There is nothing else. I have nowhere to go.

I pull at the water, do breaststroke and crawl and
Dog paddle when I'm tired. How I wish I could fly!
I seldom look over at the shore anymore,
It discourages me so much I just want to cry.

I used to swim as fast as I could
But then I would falter, lose all that I gained,
I now take it easy, I know my own limits,
I don't swim with my body, I swim with my brain!

A friend of mine used to swim with me and tell me
She loved me and wanted to always be there,
To challenge, encourage me, touch me and feel me
Splashing ahead with the burdens we'd bear.

But now she's veered off and she swims at a distance;
I can see her struggling like me, even more.
I'm trying to help but I know I can't reach her
Any more than I can reach that far away shore.

Look around! There are so many boats in the water,
I've been in a few but I've always leapt free
When with sad revelation I've found that their heading
Wasn't anywhere near to the port of "point me"

Ah, who's afraid of those waterfalls anyway,
Maybe, like rollercoasters, they're thrilling I'll bet.
We just fear them, avoid them and make up the stories
Because we have never been over one yet.

It's not easy to keep this stuff dry while I'm swimming,
I can't record anymore in the water, as such.
Would somebody please just hand me some goggles,
My eyes hurt from laughing and crying so much.

just in case
you have been waiting,
someday never comes,
it’s always now,
it never changes
from that, so stop
saying it, someday
I’m going to do
this or that,
someday never comes

I await, faithful poets
with upturned face
for a little debris
from outer space
to fall and land
in just the right place
about noon this coming Monday;

please pray, faithful poets
along with me
for this unlikely event
because it really could be;
we’d be shocked for sure
but secretly,
our mourning hearts
would be full of glee;

(now sing the chorus along with me)

Space debris, don’t fall on me,
I’m really not quite ready,
Oh, space debris, don’t fall on me,
I’m really not quite ready.

you have it right there
in front of you
in your double sink,
you've got the greasy side
where you toss the stuff
in your life that you are
done with, and needs cleaning,
and then you've got the soapy side
where there is real power
in the grease cutting aspects
of your ambition,
your desire, your dreams,
now where did they come from?
Grab a rag!

I have met so many
beautiful devils,
one tried to stab me,
one tried to shoot me,
on stole my heart, and
when I wanted it back,
she took my car; ******

we could be staring
at the ceiling together
lost in wonder; but no worry,
our time will come;
how does one
pop a champagne cork
with decorum?
is there no way
to decompress
such a powerful reality;
what person lives
in such a weak-*** place
as where you need to cook
on med-high? Let us
invite them back
to simmerland,
poor scorchers
of innocent garlic,
their culinary attempts
of bravado
leave a disting-
guishable aroma behind,
their loving search
for the unknown,
that which was not
before but lays ahead,
is testament
to their sincerity
and enthusiasm,
their recipes
a jumble of surmise,
but they always pull it off

I think you are
my last known
viable human
on this network,
if not this planet;
ordinarity has been
displaced with disparity
and a reaching
for a handhold
in the confusion,
are you here now?
I promise not
to disappear into
my illusionary state
if you promise not
to disclose my location

things which came to mind
when I read your poem,
I have been able to
flesh out with imaginative
reality, wrestling your
dilemmas to the floor
and pinning them there
while the poetic referee
pounded the mat, shouting,
and counting to three,
the match is over now,
and you can be free

You looked up
from your poetry reading
and out the window,
and in your mind’s eye
you saw me, standing
at the end of a long pier
where I had just awakened
from a dream about flying,
with a look of wonder
on my face, because I had
never woken up before from
a dream standing up, except
as a small child who had
sleep-walked into his mother’s room.
There was a moon on the lake
and a small rowboat tied to the pier,
and I climbed down into it, and
as I settled into the boat,
the water rippled and
the lower moon began to shimmer.
In a visual way, it was musical
and I hummed along. As I did
the boat began to move with
no apparent means of power,
effortless propulsion just like
the flying in my dream.
All I could do was relax
and see where the boat
was taking me. In the magic
of the moment I stopped humming
and the boat likewise slowed
to a stop. I stood up and dove
over the side, swam under water
for as long as I could hold my breath,
and when I came up, I saw you there
reading, involved with my words
on the page, and I longed to be with you.
You couldn’t see me waving, you only saw
me climb back into the boat, rowing,
parting the water with a soft, diminishing
slap as I disappeared into the distance,
but I rose from the water, flying again,
and come up behind you; you looked away
from the poem, wondering what it all meant
and I put my hands together and pushed
forward with all my will power and
flew into your heart. That is where I am
now, and I intend to stay until you can
break free from your imagined reality
and come into my story with me.

I think of you every day,
  and my thoughts fail
    because you are
    so far away;

my thoughts are not words
  that tell you I miss you;
    they are not pictures
    that conjure your beauty;

there is no color, no line
  no meter, or rhyme
    no past and no future
    no increment of time;

my thoughts are feelings:
  needs, pure wanting
    sometimes,
    expressions of longing

that words would fail at,
  and pictures distract from;
    only touches
    would do them justice;

I think of you every day,
  and my thoughts fail
    because you are
    so far away.

if you would consider me for a place in the human race, without thought, then perhaps I could be bought, but I ain't cheap, I came here by dubious means, swimming canals, finding shores, you can put water that is about three hundred degrees below zero into a woodstove and it will melt and sing you the hillbilly national anthem, but I, river swimmer, am a threat?

While looting was a
major concern during
the current catastrophe,
I saw the opportunity;
as a murderer and a thief,
I wouldn’t have to creep in
and be discreet anymore,
I could just boldly
walk in and pick anyone out
and take their wallet,
bludgeon them to death,
if I like, and take
all their cash, and leave
them there; unfortunately
I was thwarted again, by
the unfortunate circumstance
of my own demise, this hospital
room, and all these tubes which
connect me to that life I abhorred.

The temperature has
fallen to ten degrees
and I am looking into the
woodstove now, and seeing
how the densest of wooden
logs eventually succumb
to the fire, and watching
a news report of the LA
fire, and remembering when
I lived there, and flipping
over to the president elect’s
dinner with the governors, and
concluding that even the densest
of people will eventually
succumb to the truth, but
there will be unimaginable
losses (does a period go here
or shall I put a semicolon
just in case?)

I like the girls
at the pizza place,
even though they're
not very feminine,
arguing with the cooks,
exchanging insults
with the dishwashers.
Still, they're good to me
and understand.
The waitress said,
wiping her hands
on her flowered apron,
I'd take you home with me."
And even though
she didn't really mean it,
still, it was a nice
thing to say.
I saw you at our ten year
reunion
with that big-mouth
you married
and I tried to be
friendly
but it was hard
with him there.
I hadn't seen you
since the party
when you rode out
of my life
on his back,
him prancing into
the bedroom and
closing the door,
you laughing.
You were so beautiful
that night, though
not very feminine,
drunk and riding piggyback.
I waited until
the party was over
but you never came out.
I told the pizza girls
how much I wanted to tell you
"I love you," but couldn't
with big-mouth there.
They gave me a free cannoli.
They're nice,
but not very
feminine.

I live in the house of peace
where softness reigns, where
the news is watched but easily
ignored, were not stupid, here,
we just choose a different path
where all things don't collide,
and there is a buffer zone
and foam rubber reigns
and we are all trained to
subtly reject all incoming missiles
and fill the world with songs
and what else, whistles

I hear your cries
from far away, your
needs are not unusual
in any way, you rant
and rave and pretend
to propound, but seriously
is your mind still sound?
No worry. Be happy. An
old prophet sang, for you
and for me, and for all
who need to be found.

I am working up
the courage to
face you all again
ever since I laid
myself bare with
my accounting of
how I thought to
survive; by hording
my words while trying
to stay alive, but
it didn’t work, I
almost choked on them,
and now I feel like
they are just going to
spew out of my mouth again,
and shame me as before

everything is shipshape
around here, a place for
everything, and everything
in its place, there is a softening
layer of snow accumulating amid
the falling temperatures, and the
tempest is at rest, there is wood
in the woodstove, and dinner
on the stove; of course, everything
could change dramatically in a
moment, but not likely under a
blanket of snow in the West Virginia
hills, where constancy is preserved
and treasured just for the sake
of everything else.

I want to slip easily
into tomorrow, no
jolting by noisy
garbage trucks, no
disrespectful distribution
of confusion, no snurgling
confusion of words,
as if

there once was a fisherman
who went looking for words,
(he knew exactly how close
the words words and worms was)
so he took grubs; and pushed them
up into an inconspicuous place
where they festered and were
expelled, (completely without grace)
he survived in the end, without
comment, without friend,
but he wandered, and now is here

if you must
just go slide
down that slide
behind you, and
we'll tell the tourguide
you weren't really
there, but if you like
you can choose
this silly aside
and be happy
for no reason
other than to comply

human extraction is when
you pull a person out
of a situation
where they think
they are trapped
and you see them there,
without a clue,
and what else
can you do,
you reach out,
flip some switches,
pull pulleys and shout,
and pretty soon the poor person
previously captive is out,
and you go drink a beer

Hey, I need to talk to you.
Are you cognizant?
I have whisperings and shouts
needs and advice,
your response will suffice
to further your education,
of me and my clan,
and you and your plan
and I promise,
I will always play the poet
as long as I can