I wrinkle
I stretch
I sit and I fetch
I fumble and mumble along.
I rink
and I dink
I frequently stink
Sometimes I make it a song.
But for schmoozers, contoozers
begeezers and wheezers,
and things that go "Fizzapitz!" in the night.
I dof my cap
Maybe go take a cra-
happy occassion to ponder.
I write this because
The Wizard of Oz
has announced his Wizardship
is to last yet a bit longer.

Southern hearts, twin flames,
Bound by time by love.
Unbridled in passions
Mobile yet unmovable,
Looking for gold (remember, it is in your hearts)
Connected by thoughts
And feelings
And a landscape of memories.
Southern hearts
Beat as one.
Amber flames dancing together
And smiling.
Smiling.

Zen guitar
Mindless guitar

No thought
No thought

Flow

Oneness

"It is not the bars of the cage
that holds in the tiger.
It is the space in between the bars."


It is the space between the notes
that makes the music


Empy space
Thoughtless
Timeless

No Mind
Mindless

The Zen of Guitar

I do
Not doing

in a vast pool
a wave appeared
a wave among thousands
millions
the wave slowly rose
and after a time
peaked
and then slowly settled back down
into the pool

The whole time of its exhistance
it was made of the essence of the pool
it never lost its connection
it was all pool
and
all wave

and in the end
it let go of its need to be a wave
and once more
blended back to the pool
and some of it
became a wave somewhere else
while some of it remained in the pool

i am a wave

and so are you

If I change my mind,
I change my choices.
If I change my choices,
I change my life.

The song and dance of Hugh Jim Bissel

In the middle of the crowd
I felt so out of place
Like a stool firmly caught
Between the cleats.
I know you should't be more
Than what you bring to the table,
So I stamped my right foot out in the streets.

And they all turned to look
As I was dancing like a frenzy,
Pounding, driving nails
No one could see.
I lit my cigar
Off the muffler of a Yugo
And went back to carving faces
In small bricks of cheese.

(Charles Limburger went for twenty-five bucks.)

Snippit:


Kaleidoscopic phantom flyers
gather at the feast.
"Fold the soup, nip the bud,
be sure to brush the yeast!"

NON ORDINARY REALITY

In that space
That splinter of awareness
Where shadows cast shadows
The sun bleeds through wounds in the dark

Watching
I stand with wooden eyes

Time (That Leach!)
Sucks at the marrow of my soul

Watching
I gaze past myself
To a place where worlds are birthed
And eons die back to dust
(cycles of possabilities)
But the leach stays well fed

In the distance
drums quicken their pace
So I slip my footbags on
And climb down from my dream
To dream again

Later

Whacked out
in my turban
in my hot tub
in my front yard
reading my mail
like Karnack the magnificent

With disjointed finger
and multiknob nail
I point absently
like an abscess
like an antiseptic throb
like Larry and Moe
Dervish in motion
shuttlecock thoughts
random answers
an bits-o-taffy
all rolled into bricks

My skin pillars in waves
soaking flaccid
body fat index
reclining fiberglass
nibs me
in improper places
in odd sheets of time
and stoic prods
tack my bridle

Neighbors point
with Dante's eyes
and infernal thoughts
furtive glances
echoing off ivy towers
elongated and shastic
like porcelain skin
and rube oil
all intermingled
like olives and glaze

I dry myself
with front page paper towel
and dig my toes
groovily into sod
and hoof back to the garden
to eat lentil pie
to refrain
to espalier my mind
on allegory
and Leo Kottke

Reflecting on the mirror
my eyes met

Am I
And I

Still
I have never seen myself

If I lose an arm
Am I less than I was?
I am not me
in this physicality
Just because

Neither do the thoughts
make me who I am,
thinking does not make the man.
So then
where is the man in this machine
the ghost
the spark
the being
haunting cell
and neuron alike

I have no ending

But then
I have no ending for this screed
of cheese log banter either.

In my dream
I can get angry for no reason
other than to defend my right-ness.
It is an ego thing,
a feeding of that which ought not to be.
But is.
In my dream.

In my dream
I want to be first in line,
I want to have that new thing
or that old collectible or be rid of unsightly fat
overnight.(At the expense of others.)
In my dream,
all is well as long as all of my needs are met.
In my dream
I step over the needy to meet my bus.
I put loose change in a jar
rather than a hand.
In my dream
my bland thoughts are tantalizing
and yet I am so misunderstood.
I don't like my dream,
and so I try to change it.
But it is difficult.
Someone turn on the enlightenment
so I can wake up.

(actuallly written on 6-18-05)
I crawled out
out of the pit
out of a hell
that reshaped
daily morphing
glutonous and tactile
It stank down there
and my mind screamed
my soul heaved
and my hair puked
My eyes
sallow and mellon
interstitial orbs that saw crazy things
spinning stinging with tearsand dirt
and reflections

My mind torrid with thoughts untouchable
unfathonable
superballs at jet speed in a closet
never settled
never connecting
spun
whirlpools of catacombs
heaps of dreams
bones of what could be and what was

I was there
in the dark
where breathing
was less important
than that which whisperedand hissed
for my attention
and I listened
I licked the last drops from the bottle with blistered tongue
and wiped my mouth on pavement

I crawled out of the pit
four years ago yesterday
one day at a time

NowI stand in the light
I feel the sun
I breath the air
I see the world
I love
I am loved
and
I feel

Alive

i am not really here
although I could be
absence of presence
presently absent
i may have forgotten
where i put myself

or not

Moth Eaten and Cuniform

a moth stuck to my forehead
as I sat illustrating my own shadow
nakedon a stack of hot waffles
gesticulating with a spatula
and prognosticating on the ways of the world

deja blues
I've been sad before
but the golden needle eye of the candle
never looked so cruel
as when the moth pryed itself free
to dive bomb off my forehead
to the light
and disappear
in a flash
and smoke
and
a
slight

pop...

From nowhere
to now here
can be quite a trip
on a Persian rug

i am not really here
although I could be
absence of presence
presently absent
i may have forgotten
where i put myself

or not

I was comfortable
In a condensed sort of way.
Like pulpous fiber
In Anita Bryant’s hands,
Like berm
On a consternated brow
Or the filthy underthoughts
That lurk in Idyllic shadow.
Somehow, somewhere,
I know I saw an image,
A vision.
The Old Man and the Sea-
Reincarnated as the Poseidon Adventure,
Winter was never so hard to endure,
Striving with Ernest…
But I digress…
I was comfortable
In a forensic sort of way,
Divesting internally,
Nipping at the boil of ignorance
And poking at my ego.
Pushing the fly specks of my wisdom around
With bent toothpicks and Thorndike.
I twisted into Lord of the Fish
And breathed.

There are ghosts in the wall sockets
and secrets laying dormant in the plaster.
But they have been covered over,
Left to whisper beneath screaming wallpaper.
Track lighting tosses shadows
That stick in odd places.
And I, in my top hat and thoughtful poses,
Sip tea and read a book on Zen.

An old guitar, all strung out,
Leans against the wall.
Tears and laughter haunt the hollow.
In hushed urgency, the strings whisper,
"Pick me, pick me."
But I, in my overtones and understanding,
Sit and stare at the past through unblinking ears.
I wonder if I lost my grip.
Is this dischord?

Letter from Milton

Take a breath
Relax
Can you remember when you were a child
When you learned how to write the alphabet
How you learned to make small letters
Capital letters
Numbers
Do you remember?

Breath
Relax

Can you remember the sound
Of your favorite teachers voice?
The voice of someone you admired?
Let that voice
Be the voice you hear

Now

Relax

Breath
Feel the inside of your lungs
Expand
Exhale
And relax

Remember when you first learned to write numbers
Was 6 a 9
Was 9 a 6

Have you ever wondered
How relaxed you could be
Have you ever noticed
How each blade of grass
Is a different shade of green?
I wonder
How deep you can breath
I wonder

Breath again
Relax

Be at peace

Be

Had my share of city nights
Heard the call of the neon lights
I've walked the empty streets
I've slept on sweaty sheets

I rolled my own
I have drank a few
Fought my past 'til I was black and blue
Found myself out on a line
Living on borrowed time

You can die fast if your standing still
Catch your dream
And hope you fall uphill
There is nothing longer than a night
Sitting by the phone

Drinking flat beer and smoking bent cigarettes
Paid the price for loving her
But at least I'm out of debt
Easy to look at
Hard to define
Just another file
In the dustbin of my mind

I've howled like thunder
I have rent the moon
Carved out my feelings with a silver spoon
Cast it all to the wind
But it only blows back again

And again

and

again

Had my share of city nights
Heard the call of the neon lights
I walk the empty streets
I sleep on sweaty sheets...

I was born
In a no parking zone
With a stop light in my eyes
Exhaust fumes
Run thick in my blood
I was born on the lower east side

I found love
In dirty beds
Where rats ran free
And lights were red
Where money talked
And the women all said
"Come back"
And I always did

I was raised
On a dead end street
With a switch blade in my hand
Where death
Was life itself
And the strong
Had the upper hand

If there was love
It was left unsaid
Stained and forsaken
And left for dead
Reality was stricken
It was bent
And void
And cold
But it was all I had

I was born
In a no parking zone
With a cops light
In my eyes...

The Robe and the rube
How ancient is eternity?
Has it been around forever
or just recently?
Ticking away with unseen hands
(lunar ticks?)
Chaos on cruise control.
I stare into the face of time
pure Wisdom on ancient paths.
Light bends
my thoughts tumble in their orbits
my eyes breath deep.
I can see farther back
than I can see ahead.
A cosmic dance of glory
limitless in all directions.
The robe of God
fits well.

I was drawn.
My body
Made of lead.
Pencil me in
when you get the time.

What is this mess
Dry twig ideas
That snap at any kind of a tension?
A madman howls from inner ear.
Thoughts ping and ketter
Looking to escape
A maze of butter.
Pure corn for the critics eye,
For the ear that pays attention.
It is not a river of meter and tempo
Guarded with bad refrain.
It is rather the ashes of a smoke ring day,
The drippings of purpose
From the Bungeemans leaking brain.

Inner eyes and memory
Pick and preen the keys.
Costive thoughts
Are all that lie
On the board between A and Z.
The push and squeeze for ripe ideas
That lay bound above the drain.
Intestinal fortitude is needed here,
For the Bungeemans leaking brain.

I fear the dark like I fear myself.
But the Owl, he never complains.
In deepest night he finds his prey,
With piercing talon
Fixated
Silent
Sane.
But here in the bowl of life and death
Rattle the unpopped kernels
Of the Bungeemans leaking brain.

Tired as
lead
To the slaughter,
Origami words
Take odd shapes
As I tan
In the rays of mars.
O tannin’ bum
O tannin’ bum
Your presence
And gaudy metaphor
Gack at tin whistle ideals
cast in wax
Behind thin shadows cast
By the ember of a good cigar.
A noble ash
Without fir.
Who wood?
Owls own this stretch of road.
It is best left
to the other fowlers
While I flow ill formed
off to a pillow
stuffed with fowl dreams.

---A slight rework of an older blog----

I sat in the bus and stared out the window
out over the pavement
out over the people
out over a sea of cigarette butts
out over my past

A lady with a face like a bat sat next to me
and stared at my temple
her eyes were solid black
bottomless
and her stare burned holes
through my invisible wall

She asked where I was going
and in between her words
her nose would whistle
forlorn
like a ghost train on a foggy night
in a holler
with no freight except junk mail and a corpse

She asked again
I buried my face against the window
feeling its pain
as it sank so slow
the world would never know
just how fluid it really was

I hid

My will forced my invisible wall to knead and thicken
but she ingored my retreat

"Where ya goin' Honey?"
The bat faced woman was persistant
I knit my toes in my shoes
My ears all sweaty and pliable

She fanged at a moth
that she pulled from a poke
and masticated it with relish
and salt

"I am going to tomorow"

She powdered her nose with the wings
"Honey, the world is so much larger
than the window likes to show."

I muttered invisibly
and tried to look inaudible
then glanced back out over the pavement
over the cars
over the paper stands
over the hatted heads
over the underdogs
over a desert of cement

I looked

over a lot

IT WAS A SMALL CAFE
FADED PAINT BLISTERED AND CHIPPED
ONCE RED AND WHITE
NOW PINK AND GREY
TWO LARGE WINDOWS
UNBLINKING
UNBELIEVING THEIR LOT
THINNING GRAVEL LIKE THINNING HAIR
DIRTY BROWN MOTTLED WITH GREY
ONE OLD CAR SITS OUT FRONT
STARING AT THE SMALL CAFE

I SAT ON THE BENCH
IDLE AND EMITTING GASES
LIKE A CAR WITH A BAD TUNE UP.
THE BAT FACED WOMAN APPEARED AGAIN.
I SAW HER COMING FROM A DISTANCE
SHE WAS RIDING A ONE EYED PONY
ALL ASWAY AND CORRUPT.

THE PONY SET ITS EYE ON ME,
AN ORANGE COAL IN ASH AND MATS.
AND SHE WITH HER AERODYNAMIC FACE,
SATISFIED WITH MY SHRINKING
AS I TRIED TO MELT INTO MY OVERCOAT.
“WHAT DRUDGERY KEEPS YOU HERE, HONEY?”
I CONTINUED TO MELT,
MY WAX LIKE OIL.
MY BRAIN LIKE WATER
BUT NO THOUGHTS WOULD FLOAT.

SHE REACHED INTO HER ABATTOIR
AND SNATCHED OUT A MOTH.
NIPPING IT IN THE BUD
SHE PLANTED IT ON HER TONGUE.
THE PONY SHIFTED
UNBRIDLED
WITH A SADDLED COUNTENANCE.
I WAS NEARLY UNDONE.

“NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT.”
HER LIPS ALL POWDERED AND MOTH EATEN.
“THIRSTY?” I SAID.
“NOPE, FRIDAY.”
I DRIPPED LOWER INTO MY MOLD.
“FOLLOW THE PATH
THAT FOLLOWS THE SUN.
ONLY A FOOL STAYS OUT IN THE COLD.”

THE PONY BLINKED ITS EMBER
THEN THEY TURNED AND ROAD AWAY.
HIDDEN ON THE BENCH
I WATCHED FROM THE CORNER OF MY EYE
AND REMAINED.
SHE SLID INTO THE VALLEY, OUT OF VISION
OUT OF SIGHT.
I STOOD UP,
MY LEGS RENEWED.
AND WANDERED OFF TOWARDS THE LIGHT.

WITH A FRESHLY SHARPENED TOOTHPICK
I CARVED THE LIKENESS OF J. EDGAR HOOVER
INTO A PEANUT, ONLY TO WATCH A MAGPIE FLY OFF
GACKING IT IN ITS BEAK.
MEANWHILE, OUT ON THE LAWN
A CAT FLOWED BY, A FOG EDGED WITH FUR
AND CURIOSITY.
ENTRANCED BY THE CAT AND STILL LAMENTING
MY LOSS,
I SPAKE "I THINK I SHALL GO OFF TO SLEEP."
AND WITH A FILLIP OF MY FINGERS
I LEAPED INTO THE 'MORROW,
BEMOANING MY SOMBROSITY.

I'M BIG ON YA.
I'M BEGGIN' YA.
HERE, HAVE A BEGONIA.

NEVER AN ADULT MOMENT
OR IT JUST SEEMS THAT WAY
AS MY MIND SPINS AND PINGS
AND FRITTERS AWAY.
TIME IS A WIND
AND IT KEEPS STEALING THE LEAVES
FROM THE FOREST OF MY PAST,
AND MY FAMILY TREE.

WHERE IS THE WOODSMAN
I ONCE THOUGHT I WAS?
SURE OF EACH STEP,
ASTRIDE IN THE DAY.
NOW ARID AND CAUTIOUS
WITH EACH STEP A PAUSE,
THE WEDGE IS NOW IN MY SHORTS
WHERE MY AXE FARTS AND SWAYS.


WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH MY METER
HAVE I LOST ALL TRACK OF TIME?
PROSE AND CONSCIENCE LEAD ME OFF
ALL A CACKLE AND UNRAVELING.
THE SUN KNOWS ITS TIME FOR SETTING
IT HAS GONE THAT WAY BEFORE.
I STAND AT WOODS EDGE
BETWEEN SHADOW AND LIGHT
BETWEEN DAY AND NIGHT
WHERE ALL COLORS TURN TO GREY
AND PONDER AT MY TRAVELING.

EEEP.

WATERMELON WORDS
SPITTING SEEDS
AROUND THE DIRTY FEET
OF MY IMAGINATION

MY THOUGHTFUL TOES
DIG THE DIRT
IN FANCIFUL ANTICIPATION

DRIPPING DREAMS
LEAVING TRAILS OF JOY
DOWN MY ARM

WARM WINDS COMB MY HAIR
AND I
REVEL IN CHILDISH EXUBERATION

ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I’VE COINED A WORD
MY BRAIN HAS BEGUN TO SMELL
I’VE PUNCHED MY FIST
I’VE LACED MY LIP
AND STILL I HAVE NO TALE TO TELL
MY HEADS ON FIRE
MY HAIR IS SMOKING COAL
ONLY A WATERFALL OF WORDS
WILL COOL THIS FIRE IN MY SOUL

IT WAS AN ODD DEPRESSION
THE KIND THAT SNEAKS UP
AND SLIDES YOUR FEET OUT FROM UNDER YOU
A TUMBLING
SPIRALING
DOWNWARD PROGRESSION
THAT KNOCKS YOU SENSELESS
AND WINDLESS TOO

IT WAS AN AWKWARD SUSPENSION
OF TIME AND MATTER
FLOATING ON WILLPOWER AND HAIR TONIC
IT WAS APPREHENSION MANIFESTED
ARMS AKIMBO AND HANDS FISTED
FEET ALL KNOTTY AND BADLY PITCHED
THOUGHTS SOUNDLY MONOPHONIC

IT WAS AN ODD DEPRESSION
IN THE DIMNESS
IN THE DUSK OF REASON
A MOLEHILL TURNED UPSIDE DOWN
I TUMBLED AND STUMBLED
BECAUSE OF A HOLE
MY FOOT FOUND IN THE GROUND

WATCH WHAT YOU SAY
WATCH
WHAT YOU SAY
A WORD IS A BREATH
AND IT DON'T WEIGH NOTHIN'
BUT IT CARRIES A LOT OF WEIGHT
SO WATCH WHAT YOU SAY
WATCH
WHAT YOU SAY

THE TONGUE IS A FIRE
THE TONGUE IS A FLAME
IT CAN DRIVE A MAN
TO A RIVER OF KNOWLEDGE
OR DRIVE HIM DOWN THE DRAIN
SO WATCH WHAT YOU SAY
WATCH
WHAT YOU SAY

LISTEN TO YOURSELF
LISTEN
TO YOURSELF
DO YOU KNOW ITS THE SPACES
IN BETWEEN YOUR WORDS
THAT REALLY GIVE THEM
THEIR WEALTH
SO LISTEN
TO YOURSELF

LISTEN

TO

YOURSELF



LISTEN

THE RAVEN SETTLED ON THE POST AND MUGGED ME
WITH CAT CALLS AND INNUENDO.
HIS VOICE ALL RASPY FROM TOO MANY CIGARETTES
AND TOO MUCH CHEEP WHISKEY,
RATTLED AND TATTED LIKE SOME BOOZY HAWKER.
“LAY SOME BREAD ON ME, MAN,
I KNOW YOU GOT DOUGH!”
I JUST STARED AND LISTENED
NOT BEING MUCH A TALKER.

“I GOT TRUE LIES, TRUE LIES TO TELL YA,
LISTEN CLOSE AND I’LL FILL YOUR EARS!
I’LL SCRUB YOUR LIDS WITH FALSE VISIONS
AND UNDERCOOKED DREAMS
WORDS TO ENTICE
AND PULL AT YOUR SEAMS."

I SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLE AND SLOW.
REACHING FOR MY CUE STICK I HAD AN IDEA,
A THOUGHT, A PLAN
AND SET TO MAKE IT SO.

I SWUNG LIKE LIGHTNING
I SWUNG LIKE SWING
“I BET THIS HURTS.” I THOUGHT.
“I BET THIS STINGS.”
THE CUE AND THE CROW CONNECTED LIKE DOTS
AND EXCHANGED VOWS-
-FEATHERS ARE FOR FLYING AND NOT FOR CUSH.
AND I FOUND THAT
A CUE IN THE HAND
IS WORTH A CROW IN THE BUSH.

IO HEAVED AND SAID
“QUIT STEALING MY ELECTRONS!”
BUT THE BIG RED EYE JUST HISSED
AND LOOKED OFF INTO SPACE.
THE OTHERS SHIVERED IN THEIR COOLNESS
HOVERING OVER THE BIG RED EYE
THAT NEVER BLINKED AT ALL
OR COMPLAINED ABOUT ITS PLACE.

AND I IN MY NIGHT CAP
SAT BY MY SCREEN
AND MORPHED UP A WORD
THEN EEPHED UP A MEANING.
ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I WAS ME,
WAS HERE,
OR WAS THERE.
I’VE BEEN OFF BACK TO SCHOOL,




AT NIGHT

DEEP THOUGHT

SHALLOW MODALITY

MY BODY ACHES

MY EYELASHES CRINGLE AND COIL.

YES, I WORK ALL DAY

AND AT NIGHT GO TO SCHOIL.

MY HEAD IS AN OVEN
FILLED WITH PILLOWS OF MALICE
AS JELL-O CLOUDS OF ACID
BURN THE BOTTOMS OF MY EYEBALLS
WHEN I WAS A CHILD
I WOULD JUST GO ASK ALICE
NOWADAYS I JUST WHINE
AND ROLL OVER
AND SINK DOWN THE WALL

MY THROAT IS A RUSTY CAN
FILLED WITH SHARP ROCKS
AND SCRATCHING HENS
MY CHEST IS A HEAVING WAVE
OF SPONGES SOAKED IN SYRUP
AND ROLLED IN PINE NEEDLES
AND DEAD INK PENS

THE HAT ON MY HEAD IS TOO TIGHT
IT BULGES MY EYES
AND I SHUNTLE THE LIGHT
MY SOCKS ARE TOO HEAVY
TOO SMALL
THEY GATHER MY TOES
BITE MY NAILS
AND ALLOW SOME HEEL
TO DRIVE THEM INTO THE WALL

MY THOUGHTS ARE ALL RUNNY AND SLIGHT
HELD TOGETHER WITH EAR WAX
CREAKING HINGES
SPLINTERED WOOD
AND CHARCOAL
I SIT IN THAT FOG BETWEEN SHADOW AND LIGHT
DUSTY UNDERSTATEMENTS
NARDLED IDEAS DRIP AND FLOP
I SLOWLY SIP MY TEA AND C
MAYBE TOMORROW I WILL BE WHOLE

IF I WERE A SHOE I PONDERED
WHAT I COULD BE
AND THEN MY MIND SHUFFLED OFF
WITH THE POSSIBILITIES

I COULD BE A HIP WADER
IN THE DEEP END OF THE POOL
NO MORE SHALLOW THOUGHTS FOR ME
WAIST DEEP IN THE COOL

( FILTERED SUNLIGHT ON MY TOES
MY FEET FLICKERING
LIKE A SILENT MOVIE
I WOULD BE LIGHTER THAN I WAS
FOLLOWING THE BREEZE
CASTING MY CARES
AND REELING WITH IDEAS )

A HIP WADER I COULD BE
AND THE WORLD WOULD BE STUNNED
SINCE IN REALITY I’M A HIP WEIGHTER
ALL WADDLED
AND ROTUND

YOU ARE AN ADDICT!
SITTING HERE PREENING OVER THE KEYBOARD
EEKING FOR A WORD OR THOUGHT
WITH PRODDING DIRTY FINGERS.
LIKE FINGERS DIGGING AT THE LAST PIECE OF FIDDLE FADDLE
STUCK TO THE FAR EDGE OF THE BOX.
IT MIGHT AS WELL BE A STAR; VISIBLE
YET LIGHT YEARS AWAY FROM YOUR GRASP.
YOU DIG FOR WORDS LIKE SEAGULLS PICK AT A DEAD CRAB.
WORDS MAKE YOUR MIND DANCE AND TINGLE
AND SOAR ON THE WINDS OF THE TIDE.
THEY ARE HEROIN TRANSPOSED.
THEY ARE YOUR MASTER.
AND SO YOU GROVEL.
WITH PEN
WITH PENCIL
WITH KEYBOARD
WITH TOE IN DIRT.
HEAVEN FORBID YOU HAVE TO MEMORIZE!
YOU FORGET WHAT YOU STARTED AND THEN
IT IS ALL DIFFERENT WHEN YOU FINALLY FIND
THAT SCRAP OF PAPER TO SCRIBBLE ON.
THE LIGHT BILL.
THE SEWER BILL.
EACH ODDLY APPROPRIATE.
YOU
ARE AN ADDICT.

HE LOOKED INTO THE WATER
SORELY DISAPPOINTED.
“THOSE MUST BE RIPPLES,
THEY CAN’T BE WRINKLES ON MY FACE”.
HE WAS STUNNED WITH SORROW,
AND IT CUT HIM TO THE MARROW
HOW THE COLLAGEN
HAD SO ODDLY BEEN DISPLACED.

HE HAD YEARS OF EFFERVESCENT WONDER.
YEARS THAT HE WILL NEVER RECALL AGAIN.
THE SANDS OF TIME
GATHERED DUNES BENEATH HIS EYES.
AND HIS DREAMS HAD SKITTERED
IN THE WIND.

THE MUDDY WATER
STILL DETECTED HIS REFLECTION,
WITH CLOUDS SPINNING ROUND
THE BACK OF HIS HEAD.
HIS FACE FLOATED
ON WAVES OF INTROSPECTION
AND HIS HOPES SLIPPED OFF TO SLEEP
ON A SANDY BED.

FENCING WITH MY SILHOUETTE
STILETTO JABS WITH MY FINGER
DARK THOUGHTS LEAN AGAINST THE WALL

I NEVER STRAY FAR FROM MYSELF
I AM THE MIDDLE CHILD
BETWEEN SHADOW AND SUN

WE THRUST AND PARRY
COURT JOUSTERS
IN A COMIC DANCE

EVENING COMES
MY FEET SUCK MY SHADOW BACK IN
I AM FREE UNTIL DAWN

?

oh

AN OWL FOLLOWED ME DOWN THE ROAD TODAY
SILENT CUNNING BROODING
PATIENT
I BEGAN TO FEEL LIKE OLD NEWS, PUNGENT AND PECKLED
I COULD FEEL THE EYES
SOLID
FIXED
INTENT ON SUCCESS
THEY BURROWED INTO THE BACK OF MY HEAD
AND FESTERED THERE
I BEGAN TO FEEL OVEREATEN
UNDERCOOKED
OVERSENSITIVE AND PICKED APART
I SWUNG A FURTIVE GLACE BEHIND ME
EXPECTING TO SEE THE ONE
THAT WOULD DEVOLVE ME
EXPECTING TO SEE THOSE MAMMOTH WINGS
IN A FULL BRAKE
POSING FOR A FRACTION OF A SECOND
FOR ALL TO MARVEL AND COWER
I EXPECTED TO SEE TALONS POINTED AND DIRECT
YET EVER SO POLITE
LIKE ANTHONY HOPKINS WITH A SALAD FORK
BUT I SAW NOTHING
NOTHING BUT TREES
AND HOUSETOPS
AND CARS ON LOFTY TRIPS TO THE MALL
THIS OWL WAS CRAFTY
SLY
A MASTER OF DISGUISE
I WILL HAVE TO WATCH MY BACK
MINDFUL OF EVERY STEP
I KNOW HOW OWLS ARE
THEY ARE SO VERY CLEVER IN THEIR SINISTER WAY
I COULD BE CHICKEN SOUP FOR AN OWLS SOUL
GONE IN THE BLINK OF TWO BIG EYES
PFFT
ZIPPO
NADA
EXTINCTUS BUNGEEMANTUS
AND NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW
WHOO DONE IT

.

IF YOU RAN OFF SCREAMING INTO THE WOODS
AND THERE WAS NO ONE THERE TO HEAR YOU,
WOULD YOU STILL BE GOING CRAZY?

I SAT IN THE BUS SEAT AND STARED OUT THE WINDOW
OUT OVER THE PAVEMENT
OUT OVER THE PEOPLE
OUT OVER THE SEA OF CIGARETTE BUTTS
OUT OVER MY PAST

A LADY WITH A FACE LIKE A BAT SAT NEXT TO ME
AND STARED AT MY TEMPLE
HER EYES WERE SOLID BLACK
ONE GIANT PUPIL
AND HER STARE BURNED HOLES
THROUGH MY INVISIBLE WALL

SHE ASKED WHERE I WAS GOING
AND IN BETWEEN HER WORDS
HER NOSE WOULD WHISTLE
FORLORN
LIKE A GHOST TRAIN ON A FOGGY NIGHT
IN A HOLLER
WITH NO FREIGHT EXCEPT JUNK MAIL AND A CORPSE

SHE ASKED AGAIN
I BURIED MY FACE AGAINST THE WINDOW
FEELING ITS PAIN
AS IT SANK SO SLOW
THE WORLD NEVER WOULD KNOW
JUST HOW FLUID IT REALLY WAS

I HID

MY WILL FORCED MY INVISIBLE WALL TO KNEAD AND THICKEN
BUT SHE IGNORED MY RETREAT

"WHERE YA GOIN' HONEY?"
THE BAT FACED WOMAN WAS PERSISTENT
I KNIT MY TOES TOGETHER IN MY SHOES
MY EARS ALL SWEATY
EERILY SWEATY

SHE FANGED AT A MOTH THAT
SHE PULLED FROM A POKE
AND FINALLY MASTICATED IT

"I AM GOING TO TOMORROW"

SHE POWDERED HER NOSE WITH THE WINGS
" HONEY,THE WORLD IS SO MUCH LARGER
THAN THE WINDOW LIKES TO SHOW."

"I KNOW."
I LOOKED BACK OUT OVER THE PAVEMENT
OVER THE CARS
OVER THE PAPER STANDS
OVER THE HATTED HEADS
OVER THE UNDERDOGS
OVER A DESERT OF CEMENT

I LOOKED

OVER A LOT

OH

I WOKE UP EARLY
BEFORE EVERYONE ELSE
BEFORE THE SUN EVEN
BEFORE MY BRAIN

I SAUNTERED A DISHEVELED PAIR OF SWEATS
FILLED WITH ACHING BONES
ACHING SKIN
ACHING ACHES
THROUGH A DARK HOUSE
FOLLOWING MY WITS
TO WITS END
USUALLY A BAD IDEA

FILTERING THROUGH THE BATHROOM DOOR
I SPAT THE LIGHT ON
AND WOUNDED MY EYES
SQUINTING MY THOUGHTS TOGETHER
I FUMBLED FOR THE TWEEZERS
AND RESHAPED MY LIPS
STRUGGLING FOR THAT PERFECT ELVIS CURL
SO ELUSIVE
JAMES DEAN EVEN STRUGGLED
JAMES DEAN NEVER USED TWEEZERS
IN THE BATHROOM
EARLY IN THE MORNING
BEFORE THE WORLD WOKE UP

ELVIS DID THIS ONCE
ONCE IS ALL IT TAKES
BUT YOU HAVE TO DO IT RIGHT

I HAVE YET TO DO IT RIGHT

I PUT THE TWEEZERS AWAY
AND WADDLED OFF TO BED
MY LIPS ALL WOOTEN
AND TURNIPY

MAYBE TOMORROW
MAYBE NOT

I’M SO LOW DOWN AND BLUE.
BLUER THAN BLUE AM I.
BLUER THAN THE STUFF THAT KEEPS YOUR TOILET CLEAN,
BLUER THAN THE LEVI’S JEANS,
BLUER THAN MOPHEADS
OLD AND CRUSTEEN.
BLUE, JUST BLUE.
GOT THE “STUCK IN PRISON” BLUES.
GOT THE “MY BLADDERS FULL BUT
I DON’T WANNA GET OUTA BED YET” BLUES.
THE “I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH FOR THE TOLL,
BUT THERE IS NO PLACE TO TURN AROUND” BLUES.
I GOT THE “MY LAWYER GIVES IDIOTS A BAD NAME” BLUES.
I GOT THE “NOT ENOUGH PAPER ON THE ROLL, AND
JUST WHERE THE HECK IS THE OTHER ROLL?” BLUES.
I GOT “THE OTHER ROLL IS WAAAY OVER THERE,” BLUES.
WOOOA, WOOOA, WAAPA DOOO.

SO LOW DOWN AND BLUE.
BLUER THAN RAIN SEEDS IN UNFILTERED LIGHT.
BLUER THAN NEON LONG PAST THE NIGHT.
BLUER THAN CATS IN LOVE WITH THE MOON,
AND BLUER THAN PLUMBERS WITH PIPES PLUGGED WITH TAMPOONS.
BLUER THAN TICKS THAT CAN’T FIND A HOUND,
A SQUARE PEG-O-MY HEART
THAT CAN’T QUITE GET AROUND.
BLUER THAN FISH HATERS EATING AT SKIPPERS
AND BLUER THAN SUEDE ON ELVIS’ SLIPPERS.

BLUE, YES I’M BLUE.
DON’T MISTAKE IT FOR SAD.
AS FAR AS HUE GO,
ITS NOT ALL THAT BAD.

THEY CALL ME STORMY PETREL
BUT SOME DAYS I'M JUST A BIRD
YEA, THEY CALL ME STORMY PETREL
BUT SOME DAYS I'M JUST A BIRD
SOME DAYS I AM A PHRASE, YEA,
AND SOME DAYS I'M JUST A WORD

IN THIS OCEAN OF HOURS I FLOAT
LEAVING NO WAKE
AT LEAST
NOT UNTIL I DIE.
MY HEAD SWIMS
AT MY ODD STROKES
OF LUCK,
MY THOUGHTS DRIFT
AND SHIFT WITH THE TIDES.

I SAW THE DOCK YESTERDAY.
HE SAID I PITCH
AND YAW TOO MUCH.
I LET HIM PIER IN MY EYE.
HE’S A QUACK.
MAYBE HE IS REALLY NOT A DOCK
BUT RATHER A DUCK.
(I SAW HIS BILL)
BUT I WILL CROSS THAT BRIDGE ANOTHER DAY.

AS I FLOAT I WONDER
WHO AM I?
REALLY. WHO AM I?
I SEARCH MY SOLE.
ANOTHER RIPPLE IN LIFE COMES
AND I RIDE THE WAVES.
AS I RISE AND FALL
I SHOUT
“I BOB!”

“I BOB!

BACK AGAIN
NOT MUCH TO SAY
I MIGHT HAVE SOMETHING
SOME OTHER DAY
TO PULE
OPINE
AND STUDGE ABOUT
BEGRUDGE
FUDGE
AND NUDGE ABOUT
STRING CHEESE THOUGHTS
IN A PACK RATS DEN
TO LAY ABOUT
AND CARRY IN
STUMBLE OVER
IN FITS OF THOUGHT
STRESSED OUT INNER CHILD
A TAUGHTED TOT
I TEETER TAPPING
TANGLED TYPE
OVER ROT
I BID GOODNIGHT

THE BUNGEEMAN IS ON TEMPORARY LEAVE RIGHT NOW DUE TO SUDDEN AND UNEXPECTED
INCARCERATION. HE SENDS HIS REGRETS AND PROMISES TO BURST AND GRUNDER WITH BLATHER AND
BLUNDER WHEN HE IS RELEASED OR TUNNELS ASUNDER.

THERE WERE WORM HOLES IN MY COFFEE

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

AS I SAT TO WRITE BY ROTE

DOT MY TEES AND CROSS MY EYES



BUT I NEVER SAW NO CRITTERS

JUST WHAT THEY LEFT BEHIND

LIKE WORM HOLES IN MY COFFEE

AND NOTHING ON MY MIND



“I CAN’T THINK OF WHAT TO WRITE!”

(NOR CAN I WRITE OF WHAT TO THINK)

SO I SIT HERE EMPTY HEADED

WORM HOLE COFFEE FOR MY DRINK.



WHERE AM I GOING WITH THIS, OR RATHER, WHERE IS IT GOING

WITH ME?

AM I BEING LED A STRAY BY SOME BAD TYPE?

I HAVE BLOGGED ARTERIES.

MY THOUGHT LACES ARE ALL IN KNOTS.

QUICK, SOMEONE GET A FORK

SO I CAN UNRAVEL WHAT I GOTS.

MY BRAIN IS CONSTIPATED.

BOUND AND UNCLEVERED.

MAYBE I NEED MEGA-MUSE-AL

TO MAKE ME A REGULAR WRITER.

GNATS FOR IDEAS.

GNATSURALLY.

SQUEEZE! SQUEEEEEZE.

NOTHING.

(A PURPLE FACE IN THE MIRROR

OF MY IMAGINATION GRIMACES).



MAYBE I READ TOO MUCH CHOCOLATE.

EASY TO LOOK AT, SWEET TO SWALLOW

DOWN THE THROAT OF MY INTELLECT.

BUT SOUR IN MY BELLY.

A SPOONFUL OF ALUM TO MY

POETICAL SPHINCTER.

NOTHING PASSES

EXCEPT MAYBE NEBULOUS THOUGHTS

GASSY AND UNTOUCHABLE

AND WRINKABLE TO THE NOSE.

(AND THE EYES).



MAYBE I SHOULD JUST HANG IT UP

AND HAVE SOME MORE COFFEE.

BUT THEN AGAIN MAYBE NOT.

THE ONLY THING WORSE

THAN FINDING WORM HOLES IN YOUR COFFEE

IS FINDING HALF A THOUGHT

I WOKE UP THIS MORNING

TO THE ALARM BELL RING

FLUFFLED AND SQUEAKED DOWN THE HALL

DIDN’T WATCH WHERE I WAS GOING

AND THEN I DIDN’T WATCH AGAIN

MADE A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION

BUT TOOK A TURN FOR THE WORSE







AND THEN MY FACE HIT THE FLOOR

LIKE THE BUTTERED SIDE OF BREAD

MY BRAIN RANG LIKE A CHIME

IT GLOWED LIKE A KNOB FROM HANFORD

MY SKULL DEACTIVATED

AND EMITTED GASES

AND EMITTED FLOTSAM

MY EYES GREW PETUNIAS

BRAIN WEASELS NESTLED

BETWEEN MY SKULL AND ME

I FELT UNDONE

I FELT RUNNY

I FELT HAT

I FELL

AND ALL



I SAW

WAS I



ODD

I DON’T REMEMBER THAT

BEING STUCK TO THE BOTTOM

OF THE TABLE

WHEN I BOUGHT IT

ODD KNOBS

OF ODD COLORS

POKEY WITH STALACTITES

(GUMBY WITH A BAD HAIR DAY)

POINTING DOWN AT ME

INSINUATING SINISTER THINGS



MY EYES STANK

THEY NETTERED AND FITTELED

UNTIL THEY UPRIGHTED



FINALLY

I CROUCHED

I UNDERSTOOD

LEANING

TUBEROUS AND UNSIGHTLY

I EVOLVED



4:00A.M.

TOO EARLY TO RISE

TOO EARLY TOO BAD

TOO MANY BILLS TO PAY



I FLUFFLED AND SQUEAKED TO THE SHOWER


JUST ANOTHER DAY

I've had this problem you see, every time after I eat I lose my appetite. Not only that but every night
I also lapse into a state of unconsciousness. This has been going on for as long as I can remember.
I often wonder how many others there may be that suffer from this chronic syndrome. Yes, I wonder.
Hmmm.......(am I hurting for material, or WHAT!?).

I YELLED AT TRAFFIC BUT NO ONE CARED.
AND IF THEY DID, THEN NO ONE DARED
TO TURN
AN
EYE
JUST SAT THERE
WHILE MY NOSE HAIRS SWAYED IN THE BREEZE.

MAYBE, JUST MAI BEE,
NO ONE HEARD ME OVER THE BELCH
OF MY CHOAKING, CROAKING,
TREAD WEARING OZONE KILLER.
ITS GROAN BURROWED DEEP INTO THE

GROUND
COFFEE

FLOATED AT THE BOTTOM OF MY
STYROFOAM FLOWER

POT
HOLES

AND WORN OUT GROOVES MADE FOR A TOUGH RIDE
WHEN TRAFFIC FINALLY BEGAN TO MOVE.

TREES WITH NO BRANCHES DRIFTED BY ON THE RIGHT.
STRANDS OF COPPER HUNG LIKE NOODLES FLUNG
FROM THE HAND OF A CHILD.

I HIT THE GAS…
TURNED UP THE TUNES…
COOL MAN, I DIG IT NOW.
FINALY, WE MOVE AT HIGH SPEED.

I SPIT THE TOOTH PICK FROM MY AIR CONDITIONED MOUTH
ONTO MY AIR CONDITIONED FLOOR AND PUNCHED ON
THE CRUISE CRONTROL WITH A CALM SO COOL
IT OOZED.

I SLID MY SUNGLASSES OVER MY CHROMATIC EYES

AND RODE OFF INTO THE SUNSET.

---THE POEM WITHIN A POEM---
(or, Never be positive of what
you are not sure about.)


IMAGINE THIS IF YOU CAN--

IMAGINATION IN A CAN.

TO SHAKE ONESELF A JAR WITH THOUGHTS

(CHIPS OF FOOLS OR JUG-O-NAUGHTS?).

A THOUGHT:” TO THINK NOT A THOUGHT I CHOOSE.”

WOULD THAT MAKE ME A-MUSED?

IMAGINATION IN A CAN,

JUST HEAT AND STIR, SURE YOU CAN!

LIKE BOTTLE WATER FROM THE BRAIN

A CEREBRAL VORTEX DOWN THE DRAIN.

A LASS POURED YOUR INK

IN MY CUP,

(I KNEW HIMS WELL HAD NOT DRIED UP).

IMAGINE THIS…UNDERSTAND?

I THINK I THOUGHT, “I THINK I CAN.”

AND YET A MORAL IN THE END,

TO WIT:

THERE REALLY IS NO END TO IT.

AND WHOEVER OPENED THIS CAN OF WORDMS

( AND NEVER REALLY COULD QUITE HERD ‘EM)

MUST MOST ASSUREDLY BE

A TWIT.

IN RETROSPECT I CAN SEE HOW I HAVE HAD PROBLEMS WITH MY GRAMMER.

I SHALL SPEAK TO MY GRAMPER ABOUT THIS...

Sometimes it can be wonderfully blissfull to be ignorant...in a dumbfounded sort of way.
I find that I am less prone to worry if I don't actually know what is going on, and so there
have been times that you would think my tranquility
would mass so large it would actually bend light.
Ah, but ignorance does have its drawbacks.
I wrote the following words for a song quite some time ago, back when
I was copywriting tunes every other week. I have
changed some names to protect the intelligent.

-- IGNORANT MAN --



WHATS HAPPENING HERE?
I DON’T KNOW.
WHATS HAPPENING THERE?
I DON’T KNOW.
I’M AN IGNORANT MAN,
SO DON’T ASK NOTHING OF ME.
I’M AN IGNORANT MAN,
I BARELY KNOW MY A, D, C’s

WHEN I’M AWAKE,
I’M ASLEEP.
MY THOUGHTS ARE WIDE,
BUT NOT TOO DEEP.
YOU CAN WADE RIGHT IN WITHOUT THEM
COMING UP TO YOUR KNEES.
I’M AN IGNORANT MAN
SIPPING IGNORAMI TEA.

I BOUGHT A HUNDRED DOLLAR MIRROR
THOUGHT IT WOULD MAKE ME LOOK COOL.
BUT ALL IT EVER SHOWED ME WAS
A BRILLIANT FOOL.
I THOUGHT I KNEW IT ALL
SO I DROPPED OUT OF SCHOOL.
NOW ITS VIDEO GAMES AND POCKET POOL.

MY THOUGHTS ARE STARK
AND SHARP AS RAIN.
THEY CUT THE BARK
BUT NOT THE GRAIN.
IF I FELL IN THE WOODS
WOULD ANYBODY HEAR ME AT ALL?
OR WOULD THEY JUST POINT AND STARE
THE WAY THEY DO IN THE HALL?

WHATS HAPPENING HERE?
I DON’T KNOW.
WHATS HAPPENING THERE?
I DON’T KNOW.
I’VE GOT A PEA TRAP FOR WISDOM
HOOKED UP TO THE BACK OF MY BRAIN.
I’M AN IGNORANT MAN
BLISSFUL IN MY LITTLE DOMAIN.

THE HEAD COLD

MY HEAD FEELS LIKE TEN POUNDS OF WET BREAD,
STICKY AND TACTILE.
MY THOUGHTS FALL LIKE WADS OF TAPIOCA PUDDING
OFF A WOODEN SPOON, SWOONING THEIR WAY TO THE FLOOR
AND LANDING VERY UN-CATLIKE.
FAUX PAS. NOT FOUR PAW.
WE WERE SUDA FED FOR BREAKFAST, MY HEAD AND ME.
NOW WE JUST HANG TOGETHER, MY HEAD AND ME.
THE PAIN IS INFECTIOUS, FRONT TO BACK.
FROM THE TOP OF MY HEAD TO THE TIP OF MY NOSE.
MY HAIR IS TOO TIGHT.
MY EYEBROWS ARE Ph SENSITIVE.
MY FEET ARE SOUR.
AND THAT IS SOMETHING, TO HAVE SOUR FEET
AND WET BREAD IN THE HEAD.
WOULD THAT BE SOUR DOUGH FROM HEAD TO TOE?
I DON’T KNOW.
PASS THE FEET BREAD PLEASE.
I FEEL LIKE A HEEL.

WITH HALF DRESSED MUSE I RESTED MY LAURELS IN MY NEW CAPTAINS CHAIR.
MY EYES WERE FULLY LOADED WITH THE ANTICIPATION OF GORGING THEMSELVES UPON SOME SEMANTIC VISUAL FRAGRANCE, SOME
HOR’S DOERV OF WHIMSY.
AFTER A MOMENTARY EON MY EYES REFLECTED UPON THE OUTPOURING OF SHADOW FROM A CRAG NESTLED DEEP WITHIN THE ROCK OF MY SESIBILITIES.
IT WAS A SIGHT FOR SORE EYES.
THE PAGE THAT HELD MY DEEP PHILOSOPHICAL PURGINGS WAS LITTLE MORE THAN A SNOW BANK MARRED BY SOME TRANSIENT LINGUIST WITH A SMALL BLADDER OF THOUGHTS.
I HAD SPILLED GRAPHITTI UPON THE PAGE. NONSENSICAL AND VERBOSE.
I WOULD HAVE CALLED A LITERARY CORONER TO PRONOUNCE IT D.O.A., BUT DECIDED THE PAPERWORK WOULD ONLY LEAD TO MORE UGLINESS IN AN ALREADY UGLY WORLD OF WRITEN ORAGAMI.
BUT THERE ARE NO CUTE ANIMALS HERE, JUST TWISTED AND FOLDED MEANINGS AND FRAYED AND RIPPED SEMANTICS.
I DID THE NEXT BEST THING.
I HID THE BODY MYSELF.
I WADDED IT UP AND BURIED IT DEEP.
IT WOULD FEEL NO PAIN IN ITS ROUND PLASTIC LINED MORGUE, NO EMBARRASMENT.
NO UPPERCASE WOULD LOOK DOWN UPON IT.
I WAS ENVIOUSE OF ITS GOOD FORTUNE.
THE NEXT DAY IT WENT TO THE RECYCLER AND I WAS JEALOUS.
I SETTLED BACK INTO MY CAPTAINS CHAIR POISED TO MAKE MORE
MANNA FOR THE RECYCLER.
MY MUSE STOOD SHIVERING IN THE CORNER.
I DIDN’T NOTICE.
I WAS LOST DEEP IN TRASHY THOUGHT.