"clomp" poems
at the track today,
Father's Day,
each paid admission was
entitled to a wallet
and each contained a
little surprise.
most of the men seemed
between 30 and 55,
going to fat,
many of them in walking
shorts,
they had gone stale in
life,
flattened out....
in fact, **** it, they
aren't even worth writing
about!
why am I doing
this?
these don't even
deserve a death bed,
these little walking
whales,
only there are so
many of
them,
in the urinals,
in the food lines,
they have managed to
survive
in a most limited
sense
but when you see
so many of them
like that,
there and not there,
breathing, farting,
commenting,
waiting for a thunder
that will not arrive,
waiting for the charging
white horse of
Glory,
waiting for the lovely
female that is not
there,
waiting to WIN,
waiting for the great
dream to
engulf them
but they do nothing,
they clomp in their
sandals,
gnaw at hot dogs
dog style,
gulping at the
meat,
they complain about
losing,
blame the jocks,
drink green
beer,
the parking lot is
jammed with their
unpaid for
cars,
the jocks mount
again for another
race,
the men press
toward the betting
windows
mesmerized,
fathers and non-fathers
Monday is waiting
for them,
this is the last
big lark.
and the horses are
totally
beautiful.
it is shocking how
beautiful they
are
at that time,
at that place,
their life shines
through;
miracles happen,
even in
hell.
I decide to stay for
one more
race.
from Transit magazine, 1994
6.9k
Big red gnomes
stomp and clomp,
shaking me up inside.
Rumble,
Tumble,
Bumble
they go;
making me all jittery inside.
Fists
want to fly,
Words
want to scream,
and
Angry Red Gnomes
want to win.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
Your control over me is insane.
Do you realize that the words you say
jiggle round and round my brain,
pounding, pounding,
tearing at me from within
and I can't even begin to make it cease,
this tortuous game
from which there is no release.
pounding, pounding,
You really have no clue, do you?
how much your words affect me,
make me reflect on everything
and the effect is nonstop
pounding, pounding,
causing me to clomp to the brink while
struggling, trying not to sink deep
into the very emotions you cause
by attempting to stop them. The ironic
pounding, pounding,
of a few words, you have no idea
the consequence they bring
and suddenly I'm running,
bounding, bounding,
leaping willingly off the edge.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
another construction friday:
smash, lift, grunt, clean, sweep, collect, empty . . . (grind)
lift up (hup!) doors, hang 'em, nail 'em in.
rap up the stairs, feet heavy in big old boots
thighs aflame --- heavy--fuck
clomp
clomp--stomp. swish.
stop for lunch: sandwich/grapes/arizona
sandwich only cheese so not satisfied full..
dusts in the mouth
(and nostrils) so i sneeze & sneeze
raw-nosed in the attic cleaning
---brooms and dust dust dust.
good view to the bay up second level tho:
autumn vistas and panoramas and waves on white shorelines
giant's tomb in the deep, breast heaving
big wide windows w/wasps buzzing eternal
buzz
whack each with rolled window installation guide
grind with the heel
grsch
each one dead is replaced with one more
crawling from odd upstairs nest
---from rest.
feel guilty & awful killing them but
so aggressive in their slowness (compensating) this time of year that
moving material presents good risk of sting.
---zing.
hope they will forgive me.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 5:54 PM UTC
Nightlight bright,
She has a subtly shimmering smile
In the flurried snow of winter
As she climp-clomp
Passes by: home bound.
With pockets full of peonies
And daydream diamonds
Her words wash over you
And drip-drop wearily
Onto the canvas of cement.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
Inspired by Shel Silverstien’s “Hungry Mungry”
They’re coming. They’ll get me.
They’ll get me, and hit me, and make me bleed my young blood that looks just like theirs,
With skin that looks just like theirs, but something in me’s different.
As different as my mothers before me.
It doesn’t matter.
They’re coming.
Their dark boots clomp down the hall, begging to bash my ribs, or my face, or my shins, or--
--They’re here. They take their fists and their feet and their words, taking turns finding the soft flesh
Covered by my backpack and my shoes and my clothes and my bones.
They found me, and they’ll beat me, and they’ll **** me--
That’s what I think until--
--I change.
I grow. My shins and my fingers and my skull and my toes.
My body elongates, it stretches and lengthens.
I’m still bleeding and bleeding and still bruising and bleeding.
But the blows stop.
They back away, at least I think so, but my body pushes them farther and farther,
I’m pressed against the ceiling, pressed against the lockers, until I feel them give, and I’m free.
I break through the ceiling, I break past the rain, I--
--Stand up. My head skims the clouds, misting my face. I feel myself drift away from this place,
As my head reaches farther, my neck, my chest, my stomach, my legs.
Trees break beneath my feet.
They crack and splinter, just like the houses, just like the schools.
The ground gets farther and farther away, my feet so big they spread across the land and the seas.
I’m blowing up like a balloon, like Violet-fucking-Beauregard, from that book I read in in the second grade.
I push back against mass under my feet,
Let them feel the fire, let them feel the heat.
Earth is flying too close to the sun, as I grow, and I grow, and I grow.
The stars drift around me, popping blistering holes in my skin as I grow and push against them too.
I stick my hand in Jupiter, in Neptune, in Saturn.
I crush Mars like a dirt clod inside my fist, and slap nebulas together with a flick of the wrist.
I am the sun, and I am the storm, and the wind and the waves,
From the place I was birthed--
--The place I was birthed? Where was I? Where’s that?
I look to my feet and see naught but a speck,
I do a summersault to examine it closer--
--Not an inch from the Sun, my home withers and dies.
But still I grow, and I grow, and I grow.
Earth is now too small to hold
Still I grow, and I grow, and I grow.
I see so many things from here, but I shan’t get closer, for fear they’ll disappear.
But that’s not enough, still I grow, and I grow, and I grow.
Pushing them away like so many I know.
I hope and I dream for this ride to stop, still I grow, and I grow and I grow.
I grow, and I grow, and I grow.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 12:15 PM UTC
My mind emerges from the muck of dream
Sheen of crust and blurry view
In my mind you loom
In my dreams you sing your tune.
Step, clomp, foot, stomp
Off these laces
Pull these wagons
Heft these towers
Lay their power
Dream of vistas green and new
Untouched where?
there I see you
Log cabin of Linking Logs
Cobble our souls and roll them in stones
Heat our hearths and steam our schemes
Give us that leftover dream
But flags wave in every breeze
There is no land for my free
And that farm on the brook
I dream of maintenance
Will fall as quick
into this reapere
to pull the gift of life from dying soil
And play that I can have paradise
on earth
With iron ore
and sweat of toil
I will build a walled garden
to respect the rest
and tell myself
To keep dreaming.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 5:57 PM UTC
from andalusian mountains, clomp girls in spidery shoes,
green velvet cloaks of winged-fluffy catkins
they all have plum heads, boys' chins
they are sour, studious in their hopscotch, stale of their billowy plaits—
their blushy moon swallows up cyclops eyes, red-centred
with crocodile feet glowing
like sailor stars
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 6:25 PM UTC
blunt deadly weapons of mass destruction
electrify, fracture, and
jeopardize **** Sapiens
species (and entire biosphere)
continuity rent asunder
doomsday declared (nuclear winter
gallows humor spelt
with eternal snow day)
dystopian authors outflanked
nuclear fallout wreaks worst
rocky horror picture
effected upon mankind
global (worldwide)
big screen radioactive
wee ***** weber webbing
materiel severely seared
sepsis poisons deoxyribo
nucleic acid future generations
organic fiber cursed
simultaneous single simulcast
broadcast airs live after Royal Wedding
audience participation demanded
bumping ugly fleshless
formed fruitless fatal fumes
anomalies all – blinded
******** begotten bemoan
brethren brood
brutal burnt offerings
crackling, snapping,
and popping surreal muck
shapeless liquified populace
sloshing helter skelter
quests slither towards
aimless destination
bone a fied skeleton crews cruise
crying cretins creep cavalierly
crepuscular cratered city
cruel mushroom clouds
cloaked croaking cellophane charred
cancerous clumps career,
clomp continuously
chaos charts choking climate
cold comfort commanded collusion
commander in chief concurred
crumpled coveted constitution credo
crass conceit communicated
cooly came clean concerning
consensual ****** cavort
crazy cream craving characterized
condoned combined crunching
crotch crab free **** -
****** free crux
contractual commingling
cashiered coverup
chic chica chick
cigerette chewing
clutched cocked club
choked chicken concluded
das capitol business
before he returned
to regularly broadcast program
the sea son finale
last chapter of human race
no winners, nor survivors
bleak contaminated Earth gasping
heaving jackknifed lost
nonpareil planet reduced to vapor!
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
I've replaced each color
Red smells of sulfer
a luring chill, howling sirens, silk mist clung to wet skin
YOU ARE MINE, OBJECT
clouds cover sheep wool, that chars in heat
Yellow cracks pepper over itself
impact pops gemstones, vacant kings crown
Horses clomp toward them
MY CROWN! STOP YOU'LL CRUSH IT!
pill bottles shake above burning cities
Blue of baby powder
budding from pollen, crying children
droplettes falling into a body of water silently
open mouths, dancing wet tongues,
WHY CAN'T I HEAR BLUE SCREAMING?
I can't hear blue screaming
BLUE IS SCREAMING!
NOBODY CAN HEAR BLUE SCREAMING?
color are uncomfortable
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 3:20 AM UTC
Oh, my spurn of this shallow swamp!
For: it is not extensive enough
to blanket my body, when I fall over,
clomp- ing through the mud so rough.
To, under starlit sky, be submerged-
fully- on a summer night-
a desperate attempt to purge-
this black matter from within my blood
and these negative emotions that do flood-
my mind from time to time,
these sinister thoughts of mine.
Under muddy waters,
all of my feelings absolve;
& under muddy waters,
the time on my watch comes to a halt.
It's truly tantalizing-
how all of my pety issues can be resolved:
with merely one immaculately deep breath
- of the muddiest water.
Under muddy waters,
the world's disarray fades off;
& under muddy waters,
I let out my last and final cough.
--
Where is the grandeur
in growing grey, without the girl
you're grateful god grew?
Do you understand how grand-
it would be to sleep, hand in hand,
next to her while she is blanketed
in my old, ragged shirt?
Oh, the stupid smirks:
I would emit without command.
--
Unto these muddy waters,
my shadows follow.
Unto these muddy waters,
my soul has ran
- and fallen;
and into these muddy waters,
I will be swallowed.
--
Just have to drag out the garden hose first-
& run the faucet for a days worth - time. Then, and only then, shall my end- begin.
- Under muddy waters.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
it's monday
and all across america
we stand in the cold
outside office buildings
and warehouses
shuffling our feet
waiting for someone
to unlock the door
or sit in break rooms
drinking coffee
and waiting to punch the clock
our lips as grimly sealed
as the grey winter sky
or forcing smiles and small talk
but all with the same
bewildered eyes
wondering
how how how
******* it
is it monday already...
and where did the weekend go?
all those Sunday evening glances
at the clock
and counting the hours left
til bedtime
or the morning alarm
as though we could catch it
in the act
with its thieving little hands
in the cookie jar...
useless
and then awakening at 2 a.m.
and again at 3
hearing faintly
the clomp of boots
of an advancing army
conquering our territory
piece by piece
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 8:24 AM UTC
i bought slippers for my father
they were twelve-dollars
an hour's worth of work
but they weren't moccassins
and that's what he wanted so
i kept them for me, because
i don't care if it's a slipper
or a moccassin.
i am wearing what would have been
my father's size-ten slippers
and i am only a size eight.
they are big shoes,
and i clomp around in them
like a kind of clown, like a fool
who doesn't know the difference
between a slipper and a moccassin.
there are children who love to adorn
their father's clothing, like shoes,
but to me they are no more than
a reminder i am an idiot,
clomping around in the too-big
slippers that i have because i am
too-stupid a child to notice
that my father wears moccassins.
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 3:47 AM UTC