"packer" poems
who lit the candles
placed so eloquently
behind purple rock?
that sculpted radiance
and chapel grace
wound in a chosen
defined way
down the spiral
stone stairs
street cars dawdle
alongside
the packer slew
biding merchants
shuffle their wares
as the front man
and pock face
sing their sullen
holy blues
cut jazz echoes
over the accompanying
gabble and drone
incense and haze
pour from
a lower trap door
sack fish, truffles
and splendid crafts shine
inside the stained glass fronts
a wide mouth snapper
with a bloated tongue
greets the
morning tide
(not camera shy
in the least!)
the fish traps
and beaneries
bring life
to the flourishing causeway
hula hoops
and circle ballers
join the
cobaine stage
favoured rogues
and mac jacks
speak easy
of the big daddy
beth’s triple by pass
taking firm hold on
tricky ****
and the nutcracker
maze ways,
taggers and
lost tunnels
of cu chi
strike a
nerving blow
a poised finger man
belts out his tune
(with a sniff sock
and iterating glare)
his nosey neighbors
cut artisan bread
(with a white wine
and jelly spread)
midwives push forward
for an afternoon
toddle and stroll
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
mirrored fly-glass
and polished chrome
are tinted
in the blood orange dawn
running dogs of lummi
hush quiet
on this celestial
summer morn
clubman bars
and tan saddles
strapped to
the lowered hind
skull caps
and fitted chaps
for the open flow
and rich peripheral scene
concessions at the peace arch
(from the blue-coat fuzz)
black *****
and maples
cake the bow hill
and chuckanut
choppers launch
at edison
(with their metal fleck
and tuft)
a half moon rises
on the concho
and interstellar cross
cinnamon gulls
and ravens
scour the netted docks
warlock driftwood
and row homes
spot the winding
coastal roads
rumbling sounds
at the packer slew ~
with the redolence
of briny bay
alive
on the overlook
at fairhaven
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
homeland security
on these nuts
home land security
in your butts
home land security
look but don't touch
it's too much
for 'em to understand
***** jacker
**** in hand
hatin' big wacker
on tha attacker
i like 'em blacker
she's a ***** packer
don't like 'em battered
spell bound brain washed
what's tha matter?
Homeland Security Act
homeland security
tryin' ta scare
why can't tha government care?
socialist ideals
not tryin' to hear
hippie gal tryin' ta spread peace
until the cognizance cease
down with tha ****
come in your hair
tryin' ta do me long
they can't take it down
ya know they messin' around
neo-con trick
tryin' ta make brunette sick
don't they like the way i hold my ****
maybe i wanna take a lick
lyin' bitchin' wichin' cryin'
like a man's supposed to be dyin'
look at 'em fryin'.
sorcery zap to the court-ordered goofs
snitchin'
doin' bad things
mad federal schemes
they all occultic fiends
with yo mama church
as the ball swings
** **** on me
mother **** the holy see
what ya tryin' to be
....holy?
goons, screws, pigs and spooks
sayin cognizance aint to use
poor court ordered goofs so-abused
papists vowed in their delusions of grandeur
all you supposed ta think
...is white cop
expendable masses they say aint allowed ta know
while they call the pope pop
guardian protectors of tha white bred
they wanna make tha people brain dead
feds frivolous threats
tha number on your badge says zero
what you tryin' to be?
A super hero?
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
I found seashells and driftwood,
Cans and bottles and much more
Like diapers and picnic stuff
While walking along the shore.
I found cigarette butts and bags
And those horrendous soda holders
That catch on sea life and twist them
In their middle or at their shoulder.
I saw palm trees and jacaranda
Waving in the balmy breeze
And broken plastic lawn chairs
Leaning against the lovely trees.
I found six-packer carriers sitting
With all the beer bottles inside.
I saw pieces of bicycles and big batteries
And I swear I almost sat and cried.
But I had too much to do right then
Gathering up all that random junk.
I carried them to a ******* bin
And I threw it all in, kerthunk!
I wondered for the hundredth time
The parents these creeps had
That let them grow so ill behaved,
And so embarrassingly bad.
What kind of selfish brat can come
And look out on this lovely scene
And throw their ******* all around?
How can they be so mean?
It makes me hope for recompense;
That what goes around come again
And we can stash these human pigs
Into an appropriate kind of pen.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
Sit down my friends, come hear this true story
It's interesting, but it's also gory
One fine day in eighteen seventy-four
Alferd Packer, who just loved to explore
With five friends, he began a three-month tour
'Cross the Rockies, but don't ask me what for
Six men walked for seventy-five miles
But the voyage just was not all smiles
For you see, when the group finally came back
Five of the men the party now did lack
At the end of those cold seventy-five
Alferd Packer alone finished alive
When asked why, he didn't know what to say
His memory seemed to change day to day
But at last he settled on one version
Of what happened on that long excursion
The police decided this one was true
And it's this one that I'll now tell to you
One hiker, it seemed, whose name had been Bell
Just went insane, but why no one could tell
Packer claimed that Bell had killed all the rest
Of the hikers, and that packer was next
So ole Packer, he said, "I tried my best
To stop him; but I fought back with such zest
Shannon Bell died, but it's just common sense
When I say, I killed him in self-defense"
Then Alferd, he was left with five dead men
What could he do? It was getting cold then
So Alferd, to warm up that freezing hell
Took the body and he devoured Bell
For dessert he then ate his other four
Dead companions; but hey — what are friends for?
When finished, he caused a sensation
By arriving at the tour's destination
When Alferd had ended his gruesome tale
The local cops threw him quickly in jail
Where he served over seventeen long years
But if his fate fills your eyes now with tears
I'll reveal here, he was released alive
Died a free man, the age of sixty-five
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 1:54 PM UTC
Pantywaist,
This shows no taste.
Light in the loafers,
Maybe for gofers.
Squats to ***
Who? Not me!
Limp-wristed,
It it’s twisted, maybe.
***** and sissified,
Maybe somebody lied.
*** and ******
You’re a bigot.
Bigass Fruit,
Zoot and all root.
Tuttifruity,
Call to gay duty.
Half a man,
Sometimes better than.
Tinkerbell,
Go to hell.
Airy-fairy,
You’re just scary.
******** bandit,
I can’t stand it.
***********
Bigass *******
Silly queen,
Quit being mean.
Flutter-by,
Can’t pronounce butterfly?
*****
Don’t get handsy, mate!
Nancy boy.
Political ploy.
Just some of the words
We gays have all heard
With each imprecation
The implication
Is that we are sick,
Definitely twisted,
And the end result
Is that each insult
Pushes the speaker
Further away, and weakens
The hold on a reality
That homosexuality
Is just another normality.
In short, reality.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
Oh your shy very shy
You will never get the job you want because you are very shy
You want to be s s baker
Too flaming hard
You want to be lawyer
Too flaming bad
You want to be a doctor
I shake too much
I want to be a super market packer
Too ****** cheap
I want yo be an actor
Keep laughing when the teacher is showing me the ropes I want to be a waiter
But I need to understand
There is not much money involved
I want to be a security guard
Too fucken weak
I want to be s police man
Not in the eight headspace
I want to be an AFL. Player
But I need to be signed on
I hear oh your shy very shy
I am cool and you are shy
The only way to achieve your dreams in come out of your shell and i ain't gay though
I want to succeed
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 8:02 PM UTC
I am here today, but i may not be tomorrow - a hitchhiker i picked up somewhere between Bennington and Marlboro Vermont
The library at Packer's Corners had
the smell of damp and old
as a lush august climbed the faded
wide wooden planks outside
and we schemed our
nightly dinner theatre performances.
The gang congregated disorderly
across the rocky garden before the (stage) barn,
plates and carafes of wine, rapt in the play.
Marti, a painter with knobby hands, salt and pepper hair,
the face of a sage and a speech impediment;
Veranda must have been a muse with her sharp
bohemian features and sleek black bob,
smelling of rosemary and musky Parisian perfume;
Oona, so young and stormy crashed about
those mountains in moods as protean
as Vermont weather and jeans
that were more holes than fabric;
Cootie, in his black goatee and the scent of
cooking oils under his mottled and freckled skin
would squint through the bugs and heat wave haze
to Marco on the pitcher's mound
scuffing his mortorcycle boots into the
sandy tan soil riddled with stones and
laughing with the reckless abandon that
waters the eyes with antifreeze for the soul
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
My forte has never been chemistry
especially in matters of the brain
that delicate science eludes me
but give me a knife and I’m a pro
a butcher in a cesspool of
a drowning stagnant me
where the water under my bridge
does not flow out
but backs up tighter than
a meat packer’s drain
overflowing with ****** blobs of
broken promises and good intentions
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
For 40 years Joe waited
For the chance to buy a pair
Of Packer season tickets.
He was verging on despair.
That time had seen Joe
wed and Dumped,
his children grown and fled.
Joe had waited half a lifetime,
far too long for a cheese head.
Then came the notice in the mail
The ducats could be thine.
Joe jumped out of his rocking chair
in ecstasy sublime.
He danced and screamed
And shouted out
Like he would when
Green Bay Scored.
Just then Joe gasped and clutched his chest
And fell dead on the floor.
It’s sad Joe never got the chance
to cheer them from on high
To freeze his *** at Packer’s games
It’s so unfair Joe died
Still, tickets shouldn’t go to waste
So I stepped up and bought the pair.
The seats are up in “Heaven”
I’m certain Joe don’t care
Of poor old Joe, my dear late friend,
I cannot find a trace
I fear he found seats down below
in a far, far ,warmer place.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
I walked right on into your life,
Stormed right on in through the closed and creaking doors,
Knocked down the walls
Wearing come **** me boots
And a packer
Unpacked and willing
Smiling like I’d already swallowed the canary
I put it out there you know
To meet you
To have you meet me
To meet my maker
My Love Set Match
I volleyed the ball straight
Into the wanting
Court of your heart
And waited
Breath bated
For your solid, resounding return.
I stole inside you while you slept
Unstitched your skin
Climbed in and
Sewed myself deep and everlasting
inside.
I spoke softly to your shadow
Through your dreams
Until it grasped my hand
And now, like glue, I am stuck to you.
I smeared my love
Across your chest
With wet kisses
And a love bequeathed by lust.
I handed you my trust
And watched as you unwrapped it
And placed it lovingly within your own.
I tore down my walls to get to you
I walked through fiery insecurity
And swam through fear infested waters
I battled demons
And won
I lost my voice
And sung
Of two souls
Found
Two hearts bound
And a love all enduring connected.
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 5:49 AM UTC
Lord of the Rings,
pinning Kingpins
then Kinging-kings,
Mexi-can
and some can't
you stand a slump chance
peripheral vision, no glance
B-boy stance, more ***** than lance
I'll battle your whole camp,
blowing your speakers, Amp'd
revamped, and clamp't
now i'm stepping over you tramps,
those silly rants, got you stamp'd
for getting carried away-
u can't see my BARS- this ain't Saint Patrick's day.
ever since i started rapping this way,
ya'll flows start'n to look like paper mache
I made so much REAL, paper today, but
these Cheeseheads playing keep away, holding this Green Bay Packer at Bay, they ******* up the play, like a rain delay, feeling like putting the refs, to rest, for the rest of the day.Either way, my pocket's Fannie May, and the Lambo feel Cray, so like Sandro, they go pay, top dollar, no topay. I treat BARS and money the same way- up-up and away- so quick, you'd think I'm saving the day. But i'm no HERO, I dont swing that way. Villian on scene, looking for a fight. I Wonder Women- when they see, My D.C. then left Superman all ****** for acting tight. i guess that make me a Cript -tonight.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
We are growing up wrong --
Let me rephrase,
There is nothing wrong with the way in which we are growing up.
We are wrong.
We are becoming whispered secrets behind closed doors --
the information with which to bind safely, advice on a name --
Quickly passed off goods as though it were illegal to
Own a binder, a packer, a mens tie.
We are becoming men,
And yet we were never boys, not really.
Not in the way we would have liked to be.
We will be fighting the rest of our lives,
Lying, probably. Lying, when it doesn't feel like lying --
"When I was a, well, a boy scout.." But you weren't.
You were a girl scout.
We are covering our tracks to hide the identity we've worked so hard to obtain --
No one but each other will ever be proud of us.
Not for this.
Not for the hardest fight of our lives.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
I'm a knuckle *******
Know when to shut my mouth lacker
Wish I had a ***** packer
Love me a butt-smacker
Driving range golf ball wacker
Right of the little guy backer
Skin like a saltine *******
The Mack daddy mack of macker
And a surprise pinch-hitter X factor
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 2:03 AM UTC