Action Poetry: Spring 2013

It’s springtime! How about writing a poem?

This page is open for anyone to contribute a short or long poem, on any subject or idea, in any style, or to respond to anyone else’s poem. Please use the comment form below to post a poem.

155 Responses

  1. i’ll spark it up. for the
    i’ll spark it up. for the record, i’m too drunk to decide whether or not posting this poem is a good idea. cheers, poets!

    The Spirit That Doesn’t Wane

    why does the priest want to be called father?
    do i call to him
    or do i call to God?

    my lips utter mantras
    made of soap
    hoping my spirit will be cleansed,
    my tongue a snow flake

    priest, i do not think of you
    priest, i do not seek you
    priest, i do not speak to you

    sit in your throne–
    it is not God’s throne
    stand on your stage,
    it is not my Heaven

    congregation, are you saved?
    church, are you Holy?

    having missed service
    for 4 years, i
    showed up for the stain’d glass
    and to give you my apostasy

    you are ready to kill for your God
    i am ready to live for my God

    you want ecstasy, you take a pill
    i want ecstasy, i pray

  2. The jet stream is dipping
    The jet stream is dipping deep
    on the first day of Spring
    and I’m up here in Aberdeen
    thinking about old friends that live in the southeast
    and how much I want to go home to Sioux Falls
    a pair drowned in the park the other day
    everyone I know tries to tell me
    how to grow weed
    but aside from me
    the only one I know that has had success at that
    is my mom
    the stanzas from earlier in the day
    about dylan bowie joy division and cohen
    and sad as it seems
    “How to Love”
    by Lil Wayne
    in my head just endlessly plays
    half my hometown is addicted to meth
    I guess not really surprising
    since you can make with Wal Mart
    ingredients and this is the midwest
    oh little Nikki
    I’ve known you since you’ve been 16
    you like me come from an upper middle class family
    but still the way
    you follow me around the library
    but never speak
    does worry me
    I’ve never taken the time to bother to know you
    perhaps there’s is some traumatic youthful event
    that makes you so problematic
    but I really just want to think
    that you are spoiled and evil
    and I read today on MSN
    that dreams don’t provide prerecognition
    but when I had that dream
    about you in Wal Mart
    in Aberdeen
    looking for a wedding ring
    (all by yourself)
    and a few weeks later married to a younger guy
    that may have a bigger bankroll (but not much)
    not my eyes smile or charm
    and then thought about embedded Windows XP
    not working right
    I’m not sure if I should believe
    anything I read from Microsoft
    “Big Bang Theory” on TV
    one of the few network shows I don’t mind to see
    we like what we want to be
    or what we like to be
    and I’m bored
    writing bad action poems
    no coast
    ain’t the same
    as NYC or LA
    outside of Chicago Minneapolis Denver
    it’s all fucking boring
    smoke another Camel Crush
    eat more red meat
    die before brunch
    blah blah blah

  3. Wojo if you’re too drunk to
    Wojo if you’re too drunk to decide
    Whether to write a poem
    The answer is yes

  4. sober (well booze wise)
    sober (well booze wise) almost six months…

    I learned two good things

    1) When a woman storms off follow her

    2) “Snowed”—medical slang for being high on valium to get snowed…ie high on benzios…

  5. Six Bits on the Dime
    Six Bits on the Dime
    A Poem of Spring in the Age of Goog

    Phoenix rising
    From ash ashes of Last Out Louisville Sluggers
    Spirits and Ghosts mingle among the strenuous alive 
    Ho Ho Kam Camelback
    Johnnie LeMaster Yasiel Puig
    Simmons Scully
    Tuscon Tempe Goodyear Surprise
    Indian School
    Modern Megalopolis midst saguaros
    Flash flood gullies
    Ribbon Roller Coaster
    Six Bits on the Dime
    The river ran
    The clouds condensed
    It’s a long time since October
    Sun beating down again
    Time to begin again

  6. The Lightning Field
    The Lightning Field

    Thin, chill air goes slack around you
    punchy from the drubbing
    it took, begging a moment
    of silence to absorb the blow
    and all that rain
    a real gully washer

    aligning toppled right angles
    into a glittering cube, raw
    from a good scrubbing
    shedding curtains of water flush
    with grit, spent casings from an epic
    shelling, replacing all your memories

    of frail veiny lightning.
    Fate tempted and humbled, sweep into
    The Lightning Field, nervy and brash
    on the margins, the brass leaking
    away the deeper in you go
    polished stainless steel sentinels

    at intervals of 220 feet
    the silent roar of 400 slender mirrors
    piercing, tapered points patiently
    describing a plane but you’re not listening:
    smeared by a blood red sun, engulfed
    in a fired cathedral, spires set aflame.

  7. On the Growing of Imaginary
    On the Growing of Imaginary Arms

    Maybe tomorrow will be the day that everyone wakes
    up to write a poem, Dean Young muses
    in The Art of Recklessness.
    Well, be careful what you wish for,
    Dean, it might turn out to be a suitcase stuffed
    with your dead mom’s pubic hair
    that is delivered to your room.
    What? Your mom’s not dead yet?
    Dental floss, then, used. Don’t ask
    what we’ve been eating! Steel wool
    that has been stuck into unspeakable drains.
    Aborted babies, the remains of which.
    Or a thousand chloroformed mice
    due to wake up any moment now.
    Quick! Close the cover!
    Am I being deliberately distasteful
    or just childish, or both?
    Yes, I agree.
    I agree with everything.
    Let us jump up and down a stick of dynamite
    in each fist and a fart cushion under every arm.
    This isn’t literature, you say? Of course it isn’t.
    Surrealism was never intended to create art;
    it’s a way to paint the walls of your life with doors
    to other lives
    to turn your salt and paper shakers
    into miniature horses
    because refrigerators are something that exist
    when you’re not involved.
    So let’s unzip ourselves. Let’s pull out
    the string that stitches us together like a turkey
    and see what falls to the floor.
    Let’s save only the interesting-looking bits.
    Recipe for Writing a Poem:
    1. Take a clean sheet of paper.
    2. Do something on it that has never been done before.
    Start off talking and surprise yourself
    with what you have to say
    be your own wildly enthusiastic audience.
    One of the most disturbingly beautiful things I’ve ever heard
    is how those starving to death during the Russian famine
    sucked strings of meat from between each other’s teeth.
    Talk about a kiss!
    What is a poem is the question you ask
    when you’ve already been to Kansas.
    What should a poem be is the question you ask
    when you’re choking to death on the tiny violin
    in the back of your throat. A poem, then,
    is something you’ve never seen before,
    something coughed up in a tissue
    like a Minotaur fetus.
    Is it death, then? Yes,
    I’m pulling up the nails of my own coffin
    because it’s not time to climb inside
    no matter what the coroner says.
    I started a suicide note and it turned into a love letter
    so full of plutonium that I was arrested as a terrorist
    but I swear that I’m innocent of everything
    except looking out the corners of my eyes.
    Writing a poem
    is like throwing your feet out in front of you
    to keep from falling
    stumbling forward five or six steps
    and then falling flat on your face anyway
    breaking your nose
    and bleeding all over the floor in great rusty poppies.
    Look what it cost me,
    three eye-teeth!
    Because a poem is a call to arms
    if you still have arms to call
    in the fight against flabby complacency.
    If, like most of us, your arms were sawed-off
    in the 3rd grade, a poem is a magic spell
    to charm your DNA to grow new ones
    the way certain species of newt can grow new tails.
    No, it can’t be done; at least not until it’s been done,
    so why not try? Anyone can
    grow imaginary arms in the meantime;
    it’s been proven. I proved it this morning
    at 4.17 a.m. With them, you can reach
    the imaginary jars the Nazis have hidden
    high up in the cupboard.
    I have a thousand eggs unhatched inside me
    and I want to break them all before I die.
    Maybe tomorrow will be the day that everyone wakes up
    to write a poem, Dean Young muses
    in The Art of Recklessness–
    it’s at his own peril that he muses thus
    as I hope here to have amply shown.

  8. Give me a Margarita
    Give me a Margarita
    …Daniel Scott Buck

    Let’s not fight.
    It’s the first day of spring.
    Roll those harsh words
    around your mouth
    like a shot of tequila.
    Swallow the worm.
    Shake the rotten apple.
    Drench it with Cointreau.
    Salt your hair.
    Bite a lime.
    And give me
    a Margarita.

  9. Commuter’s Joe…
    Commuter’s Joe…

    her hair
    like wisps of burnished copper
    sea fans on deep pillows
    spread out above duvet
    broken silhouette
    bed warmth venting
    fighting blue-black cold as
    I arise and shake off
    clinging hands of sleep
    clumsily I make water
    playing footsies with the cat
    glances in a spotted looking glass
    stumble on a toe
    hygiene habit whoop-de-doo
    another day in the role of man
    step right up
    step it up
    daily three ring has begun
    music only sotto once
    as I glance deep in my eye
    wondering if my heart’s gone dumb
    (true heart, once fierce & free?)
    if my soul was meant to fly
    but asking meaning now
    is meaningless
    furrows plowed and dimming pass
    commuter’s music fills the air
    mumbling desperate on the pike
    shuffle up, hook it up,
    file out to the door
    no time
    no time for
    a seesaw for a mood
    sparrows for a mind
    vegetably, I regret nothing

  10. styrofoam stale stench
    styrofoam stale stench
    wench’s attitude made me gag
    bye-bye forever

  11. …sweet and low (for sweet
    …sweet and low (for sweet pat)…

    Little pink pack of chemical taste.
    Makes ice tea smooth and great.
    Trick your tounge, stir it slow.
    Don’t ever be without sweet and low.

  12. I’d recommend not using 150
    I’d recommend not using 150 tea bags to make one pot of tea…

  13. …texico (draft): american
    …texico (draft): american margin call…

    No one could have predicted the rise of the Texicans, but many were involved. Elias T. Woods considered it long ago, on the banks of the Brazos. Talking late into the night with L. Dean, he understood the Texico dream. Economically, he knew a Texico future was more fertile, but he questioned the willingness of the people, or even the willingness of the politicians, to revolt from America.

    At that time, before the towers fell, America was widely considered the lone superpower. The storefront doors swung open and the world bought America. And also stole America. Literally, as chinese and indian hackers stole every piece of data owned by americans, american corporations, american government institutions, american schools of higher education, american museums, american halls of fame, american fincancial institutions, american military infrastructure. It was a fleece job the likes of which the world had never seen. Meanwhile, America was sending another big boat to the Persian Gulf to really pressure the Iranians to quit making a nuclear bomb. The Iranians never looked intimidated.

    Just like the Brits, America was fighting wars the old way and stumbling along. Trillions of dollars were borrowed from future generations of americans and foreigners to fund the operation. New planes and ships and rockets and night vision glasses and jeeps every year. The president always got a few hats and a blue all-weather jacket to wear around the boats and military bases. Uncle sam had big, big pockets. Commanders and chiefs with a tribe of cameras and videoers documenting the whole sad scene.

    In wait the hackers plotted along with the lenders. Eventually the days of the American Margin Call arrived and while americans drowned in ten dollar gasoline and double digit inflation, corporations laid off millions. Chinese were dumping treasuries like the great flood of the world–a financial flood. The notes were due. All the while, Asian replication of the american economy progressed and America’s slide to second world country continued. Once it was disclosed that Ft. Knox held no actual gold, the public was finally outraged. Even Guantanomo closed down, in an undeclared surrender.

    By this time the government was so massive, only mirrors could capture the guilty, naive, and dumb. However, the government didn’t lay anyone off, it got bigger. Factions of dissenters remained, but only Texas was able to organize and prepare effectively. Only Texas had men and women of adventure, courage, and persistence to follow through. The bravado, the umph, the vision. Put your cards on the table and keep your hands where I can see ’em. Part of the past and ingrained in the Texas earth. This place will exist long after America, as all places have throughout history. Empires rise and fall. The same will likely happen to Texico one day. Or, perhaps God will decide to end it all prior to that day. Perhaps Texico is the last empire on earth.

  14. …jelly farm…
    …jelly farm…

    ‘heyell naw i ain’t goin over to that jelly farm. they got girls with rayzors and wire cutters.’

    just a quick one, it’s the mashing season and everybody’s tired.

    ‘whatchu think i am, a sucka girl?’

    it’s just, that, um, ah, well, they asked for you specifically.

    ‘everbody always askin for me huh?’

    must be the the way you you roll the calf and finish the feet.

    ‘the feets is the wheels of this world, if you got em. so if ya got em, you oughts to take care of em.’

    sorry lulubelle, we’ll plan better next time.

    ‘you ever see them make that jelly?’

    no, why?

    ‘it’s an awful mess. turns my stomach. thee big ole pots of steamin blueberry mash. cooking all the while. hot in there too. some of those old ladies been there fordy years. makin that jelly ever day. damn i’m glad i became a massage therapist instead. i coulda been stuck in there foever. you like my boots?’

    i like to see them walking.

  15. I would make love to your
    I would make love to your socks if I had you
    I would step around mine piles of dirty clothes
    and debris
    and compromised dreams
    If nightly
    I could look forward
    to the sweet microcosm of you
    If nightly I could have you open,
    a shifting landscape of limbs and quilt
    Then daily
    I would make smiling morning coffee
    and look forward to the slow revolution
    of another twenty four hours

  16. Fast times
    Fast times
    Every day getting stronger
    So much misunderstood
    Yet it’s all for the prove
    Like you were in some duel
    But it’s all with yourself
    Plates and cups put away neatly
    On the shelf

  17. …gazing with love…
    …gazing with love…

    already the wind is picking up.
    leaves and dusty earth swirling around.
    texas spring winds blowing cool and loud.
    window seams and door footers hissing.

    carnival callers all died off.
    replaced by lit arrows and blue shirts.
    communications and cops glowfacing.
    using every possible space in the complex.
    disco music and dinging noises.
    wino hustlers and low rise jeans.
    doctor office furniture and broken springs.
    ice cream shop open til midnight.
    and the outside smokers all have scowls.

    the smiles and laughs of the young were real.
    a father, showing them how it’s done.
    folks on the mend and busting out.
    talking to one another and gazing with love.

  18. I look at your middle
    I look at your middle sections it’s a message from god…
    red hair and oh so fair
    do I dare compare thee?
    Oh fuck I am snowed in…
    what is a curse
    what is a blessing?

    and wid u I’m messing
    do ya think it is compression ?

    Cos we git heavy weights
    of Sodom

    Growing two heads where you’re balls should have been

    and a gate
    and guessing

    laughing laughing
    cos itz da cold her spring…

    THE LT. GOV.

  20. hey baby hey baby hey girls
    hey baby hey baby hey girls say

    1. Considerable superficial charm and average or above average intelligence.

    2. Absence of delusions and other signs of irrational thinking

    3. Absence of anxiety or other “neurotic” symptoms considerable poise, calmness, and verbal facility.

    4. Unreliability, disregard for obligations no sense of responsibility, in matters of little and great import.

    5.Untruthfulness and insincerity

    7. Antisocial behavior which is inadequately motivated and poorly planned, seeming to stem from an inexplicable impulsiveness.

    7.Inadequately motivated antisocial behavior

    8.Poor judgment and failure to learn from experience

    9. Pathological egocentricity. Total self-centeredness incapacity for real love and attachment.

    10. General poverty ot deep and lasting emotions.

    11. Lack of any true insight, inability to see oneself as others do.

    12. Ingratitude for any special considerations, kindness, and trust.

    13. Fantastic and objectionable behavior, after drinking and sometimes even when not drinking–vulgarity, rudeness, quick mood shifts, pranks.

    14. No history of genuine suicide attempts.

    15. An impersonal, trivial, and poorly integrated seX life. Failure to have a life plan and to live in any ordered way, unless it be one promoting self-defeat.

  21. “SUV Blues Penny Haiku Series
    “SUV Blues Penny Haiku Series”
    By Steve Plonk

    PENNY HAIKU #167
    See Elmar Fud-Yo
    Intwepid Samurai,
    Samara sword swallower
    Or Fire in the Hole—
    SUV overboard or tired
    Fatman takes a break.

    PENNY HAIKU #168
    Coletomb tires
    My bones are cold
    As an underground condo
    Colestone tires
    You drive them in
    Then you drive right OUT THERE.

    PENNY HAIKU #169
    No Wind Tires
    Colestone gathers flying moss.
    Run out of gas tires—
    Sold by E-Z Implode Tire Company.

    PENNY HAIKU #170
    Friedbone Tires:
    Get your spirit rotated.
    Stonefired—will get thee! Higher!
    Stay away from the tapestry.

    Authors Notes: From larger MSS. entitled POEMS FOR MY DAUGHTER: PENNY HAIKU, Circa Summer 2000. Author retains reprint rights.

  22. Ich bin Achim. Groß, breite
    Ich bin Achim. Groß, breite Schultern, verwaschenes T-Shirt, Schlangenledergürtel und lispelnde Aussprache. Stechend blaue Augen. Liebe und Dummheit. Unbeholfene Willenskraft. Wind um meinen Kopf herum. Wind. Ich bin brutal. Unbeantwortet. Trinke Sonnenlicht. Habe immer einen Sonnendrink zur Hand. Bleiches Gold. Ich bin jung. Du bist jünger. Ich bin alt. Du bist jung. Ich war überall wo Du noch sein wirst. Du bist dort. Ich bin hier. Wind um Deinen Kopf. Gebe Gold in Dein Glas. Licht in Dein Auge. Wir sind dumm. Wissen wir. Wissen wir. Wir sprechen nicht in Tatsachen und Fakten. Wir sagen Uuh, Oh, Mmmmh, Ah…


    Again the story that takes a thousand years
    The table is set, a desert of matzoh
    Always, I am the wicked child

  24. dirty white angels…
    dirty white angels…

    her young pink lips curl into a smile, her dark lashes flutter. she giggles at one of his jokes, and he laughs back. her face is pure innocence, her aura, that of a fresh young child. her head tilts back as she laughs at another joke, and he is amused at her pixie-ish ways. her eyes glitter like orbs of colored lights. her hair is long and blonde like a halo upon her head.

    she bites her lips to suppress a moan but a kittenish cry escapes. his hand is on her thigh, searching, groping, higher, higher…

    and when he is through, he smiles and kisses her cheek, or maybe even her lips. money finds its way into her fingers. she smiles back.

    she is fourteen.


    she needs the money.

    she likes what she does.

    and inside she cries.

  25. my heart is like the restroom
    my heart is like the restroom at the last right stop on the highway to end to all time.
    It is fairly clean but disordered. People only make to the end of time once in every 300 million years and they check on it every few parsnips.

    James Joyce and T.S. Eliot are drinking whiskie sours in the RV parking lot. But there is nothing to empty from that tank because its all in that tank.

    A bad Cure remix album plays.

    There is muzak every where. Under rocks beneath the stones.

    Love is everywhere.

    You missed the Stone Roses show at the last Casino on the highway to hell.

    It is only three chords and it gets annoying. Guitars stopped beginning commonplace somewhere in the 2050’s.

    Pentantonics with drum machines.

    Synsonics Pro Drum everywhere.

    It was murder.

    You go outside to the solar drift.

    Waiting for moon men from the 20th Century.

    Adolf Hitler floats by on a chariot.

    And damn G…meta fuck paleo-shit trans bitch post ass.

    And Eco and Peirce nod in agreement.

    And it stills seems like Plato.

    That’s the bump of a burn of part of my heart by minute…

    Trying to make voices in organs

    Organs into strings…

    Goddamn Higgs boson.

    Opps with yumm-yo results.

    Definite Cap.

    Max a million

  26. Slog, I’ve dated a few of
    Slog, I’ve dated a few of those women. Fun to drink with, hell to pay when hungover.

  27. …sorry moods…
    …sorry moods…

    So goes the peace of mind.
    A few moments of sanity.
    When our minds are open and unafraid.
    Understanding the need for fate.
    Letting destiny unfold.
    Despite the pain and wreckage.
    It is a terrible mess.
    These lives we make.
    Reliance on habits and rituals.
    Sorry moods and daggers.
    Trying our best to deflect glory.
    Forget expectations.
    The curse of fools.

  28. u git the fate u deserve
    u git the fate u deserve
    it isn’t just a heard word
    and the stones ain’t streaming right
    and in some other life that won’t have menome
    everybody growing beards
    as they get older older over dead
    we all got red skin and red blood here
    Mouth Wash Warriors
    and they won’t cure AIDS soon enough
    zombie creeping flesh
    a zombie movie from Africa
    and Italy
    dubbed in English
    filmography has its moments
    mostly discontent
    as 1840’s Ireland
    and I feel my skin getting flayed
    as we git closer to Jesus day
    To you JP2 do I pray hoping
    for old bones and complete teeth
    no fear of caries
    and Carrie Con Queso
    and Carrie did you spill the mail now?
    Ranking things with integer
    coming closer to the codex
    A Roman Missal
    of all the things we are in love with
    I’m blazed out of my mind
    making an SS scarecrow
    stocking up on phosgene
    if I was a few days before my bar mitzvah and you were taylor swift
    I might give you 20 dollars to strip

  29. playing the same damn three
    playing the same damn three chords
    till I am bored
    my mind more of an 808 and five flat notes
    I mistake engines for music
    I regret not having hake
    I regret the fact I am a complete
    but we real the with cotton underwear
    emissions from all the leaded cars
    all for higher octave
    I’d be jittery
    if I wouldn’t

    have done
    so many drugs

  30. stand tall wherever you are
    stand tall wherever you are

    this world does not need your sleep

  31. Cathedral of Silence
    Cathedral of Silence

    I let the silence
    of the world
    enter me:

    like an empty cathedral,
    lit by 10,000 candles,
    that holds
    the memory
    of every
    answered prayer
    throughout time;

    a silence
    that cleanses you
    of all trifles
    and small pleas
    you might place
    before God

    because God
    will only accept
    the prayers
    that serve
    your thriving
    and free
    the world
    to be itself.

    In this silence,
    there is no asking
    and no receiving.

    All prayers
    of the heart
    are answered
    the moment
    they become
    the living truth
    of your life.

    – By Nick Leforce

  32. hay men…
    hay men…

    can a war zone hate in the autumn?
    better asked in the spring
    life takes on more fecund roles
    robins bouncing on the sod
    spring peepers drowning out
    my dreams
    and symphonies of war
    germinating in sterile soil
    of hatreds and the vibrant world
    furrows, like lines in sand,
    lie fallow in droughts of compassion
    irrigated by greed and ideal
    the state a negligent farmer
    the cleric a dark eyed plowman
    and we
    the silent few
    hang saddened
    twisting in a drier wind
    stuffed full of straw and tatters
    fowling-pieces staked to iron crosses
    as crows with crimson eyes
    flay the parchment of our skins…

  33. …moon balls…
    …moon balls…

    .ralph sampson was a tall, tall dude. was reminded of him while researching the last consolation game of the final four. happened in 1981. bet that game was riddled with gambling influence. the vegas players. mr brown convinced me the fix was in. politics too. ralph never was as good as akeem the dream. ewing mainly lost. villanova days. the others, gilmore, jabbar, robinson, wilt, russell, duncan. giant men, bigger than the normal big basketball player. shaq ruled for years. second tier includes sikma, cartwright, vlade. the mavs got only chandler, donaldson, bradley, dampier. what a sorry state. a c greene won the iron man. thank God for dirk. anyway, was thinking about giants in general and they have always been around. figuratively and literally. casting huge shadows and attracting fixed stares. living above the crowd, paticipating still. ‘fat leeeeeveeerrrrr!!’, the crazed fan cried out in the hollow arena, mike izzulino getting game time. again, thank God for dirk. figuratively, and with a broader brush, these giant voices rage. creating the dicussions of the future. the young ones are getting taken. alarms are sounding. like a ticker tape. gonna die in debtor’s prison. let the jailhouse conversions be celebrated. almost been a christian his whole life. but i will guarantee this one thing–prime on prime, akeem would shut down lebron, while dropping moon balls all night.

  34. Dead Bus
    Dead Bus

    There was a dead guy
    sitting on the bus
    in front of me tonight.
    He was calling the office
    on his cell phone
    giving some last minute
    instructions to some poor
    bastard who worked for him.
    He was talking in such a loud,
    obnoxious voice I turned
    to look if he was disturbing
    anyone else besides me. But the woman
    across the aisle reading
    the NY Times was dead
    too and so were the couple
    chatting behind her. In fact,
    it seemed as if I were the only
    living person on the whole
    fucking bus. Naturally,
    I began to get worried.
    I was speeding down the
    turnpike in a busload of dead
    folks passed a landscape
    of petrochemical drums and
    mobster swampland. And
    then I made the mistake
    of looking in the rearview
    mirror and seeing the bus
    drivers eyes looking directly
    at me. I knew right then I
    wasnt going home alive
    that night. It didn’t make a
    difference whether he drove
    off the bridge or slammed into
    a cement mixer. I looked at
    my pale reflection in the
    darkening window and saw
    what he saw: another pale-
    faced dead commuter on
    his way home to his house,
    his family, his dinner, his tv,
    and his moonlit sexless bed.
    I wanted to laugh but the dead
    dont laugh they just sort of
    unhinge their jaws in mute surprise.
    Besides, even among the dead
    I prefer not to seem insane.

  35. ..hours away..
    ..hours away..

    ..awoke ahead of the sun..
    roads still damp and cool
    ..slain by this world..
    left to gasp for air and die
    ..good to see your face again..
    the lines are gone for good robes and shoes..
    strong and joyful all the time
    ..unannoyed and giving..
    expected only to live forever
    ..time and flesh gone..
    all forgave and all forgot
    ..transparent and glowing..
    no malice or manipulation health concerns..
    the fitness of samson
    ..the days will melt..
    the nights will last and last
    ..dreams will come true..
    it’s only hours away

  36. ‘Maybe Next Time'(Travel in
    ‘Maybe Next Time'(Travel in Chicago)

    One old man, with grey, messy hair
    Sits in a wheelchair
    Makes face to me, and says:
    ‘All right, welcome to the Windy City,
    All right, have a nice day.’
    I lower my eyelash, hesitantly go away
    Just as most passers-by who are always in hurry
    From behind me comes his voice,
    ‘Maybe next time
    Maybe next time.’

    ——03/14/2009, written in St. Louis. I am Chinese and only spent one year in St. Louis, so sorry for any potential mistake in this piece of so-called poem, which always reminds me of something in my everyday life, though.

  37. spring

    keep golden drool
    flowing keep
    spitting I’m going
    further I like
    my scent these
    days I could
    eat my self
    up don’t stop
    keep it flowing
    drip drop drop

  38. …perfect imperfections..
    …perfect imperfections..

    …the dripping of spring, wild weeds and flowers. the trees come alive again after spilling their color the pevious fall. the exhaustion of it all. like an artist must feel after a finished painting. perfections all perfected, completly familiar with every detail. dreamt about. loved. hated. in the end, a reconciliation, or acceptance. otherwise, the trash can. these creators are a strange breed. walking on a glowing cloud one day, swimming in mud the next. memories and anticipation help to bridge until the next inspiration. ideas, places, people. thinking in that order, but acting in reverse. the body does alert the mind. conditions and circumstance are fate’s result, a culmination of a thousand decisions. free will being like a coin. two sides. then we get to heaven and hell and good and evil, which do exist, but it’s a worn topic. we only have 30 thousand days if we live a long life, don’t waste it debating the original fool. the devil’s been discredited. the good ole days are yet to come. somehow, this links back to spring dripping. the appreciation of creation, over and over again. the beautiful display. God seems a caref ree artist, let it fly, editing to a minimum. gives validation to the first thought best thought side of creative art. the imperfections are perfect.

  39. Hypocollector….. this is a
    Hypocollector….. this is a good one you just wrote… perhaps the best that has emerged from this thread to date. Seems straightforward and honest…. perfectly fluid and yet at the same time delightfully clear headed. save some of this same stuff of the same well-spring and make some submissions somewhere : )

  40. The Masterpiece
    The Masterpiece

    i do not wish to write
    the masterpiece,
    i wish to become
    the masterpiece

    the sun rise / the man thinking
    the sun set / God’s child rejoicing

    the rose reaching through the bud/
    the soul retiring to scripture

    the lotus preaching it’s beauty/
    the mind that knows it need not preach

    let the lesson teach itself
    let my example be my sermon
    let my dance be my pulpit

    i do not wish to persuade you,
    but to honor God and
    remain silent in Her presence
    except the words “Holy” and
    “Thank You” and “Blessings,”

    a believer needs no words,
    especially what he seeks–
    a believer needs no sights,
    his vision is not compromised
    by what this world
    shows him

  41. …nurse, thanks for your
    …nurse, thanks for your accolades, just took the ‘drip’ from ms and let it fly, carefree artist. action poetry to be sure. the reaction to the action. never thought of submissions. on to the next thing, trying to find another bridge to cross the raging river again. above the jaded rocks, above the drowning pool, above the chaotic madness and deadly rapids. each crossing ends with relief and exhiliration. got a gig today at a crawfish boil. you know they suck out the brains? hope they got some chips and salsa. the world could live on chips and salsa…

  42. Still and cool night
    Still and cool night
    Saw On the Road
    Disappointment all around
    Dean boppin Steve Buscemi
    Got the biggest laugh
    Somehow I missed that part
    in the book
    Back home and let down
    It was almost as bad as
    Uma Thurman in Even Cowgirls
    Get the Blues
    Maybe worse if that’s possible
    Should have made the movie
    In the late fifties
    Another great novel debauched
    on the silver screen

  43. Snow Week
    Snow Week

    Ground up, swallowed,
    tuning against the static,
    Collected around the breakfast table,
    From depressive to manic,
    Crafted collectives surveillance recollected,
    Teared explanations,
    Wearing boots and night walks,
    We don’t ask no questions.

  44. I heard the owl call my name,
    I heard the owl call my name,
    like a backbeat in a child’s voice,
    etched in shadows of a father’s grave,

    lonely echoes on a frosted night…

    at dawn I’ll be immortal again,
    renewed by another workaday
    and the uncaring fiscal year,

    my soul stays leafless in damp moonlight…

    do we end the days defibrillating
    in hospice and parchment,
    or under foreign suns twitching and fluid,

    while kestrels dive as doves take flight…

    why only in the dark hours,
    the soul’s midnight,
    can we see farther, deeper,

    nightdreams wander like a restless wight…

    experienced or just imagined,
    dreamt but never realized,
    conceived yet unexecuted,

    an inner eye begs keener sight…

    as yellow eyed and dark skinned children,
    play with tattered banners,
    laughing at rusted armor, bleaching bones,

    and history cries that might makes right…

    as I, stale pilgrim of no progress,
    catch faint odors of war,
    in the molded root celler of my mind,

    as hope catches wind like a child’s kite.

  45. Susurra, that is a beautiful
    Susurra, that is a beautiful poem. Loved it. Thanks for sharing!

  46. Subsurface enjoyed
    Subsurface enjoyed
    Genuine action
    Alive, alive Oh!
    Spilling that wine
    Spring sprung
    Arms tanned
    L.A. Woman tunes
    Densmore’s favorite Doors album
    Jazzy pop poetry
    Reading Dr. Sax later
    Beats in time on the train home
    It’s where I wanna be
    On the Road sucked, but the
    next night that movie with Sean Penn playing a
    all made up Nazi hunter/old rocker was
    something else
    If there is a GOD, may he bless
    Action Poetry

  47. Emergence

    My throat is a grave
    Mockery makes thick darkness rest
    and revel in light’s absenteeism
    False teachers
    lead happy headed lambs
    to slaughter
    and an unholy alter waits

  48. Punk on Punk
    Punk on Punk

    the Rotten vision of it all
    a renaissance culture Clash
    of hell rising from The Fall.

  49. Rebuilding

    O! The schizophrenia
    O! The frenetic post-modern millenia
    Read left to right knowledge seekers
    Read right to left eastern orthodox soul seekers
    O! HaRuach HaKodesh
    This burnt up flesh

  50. an unacceptable
    an unacceptable
    creeps today
    through my room
    whose hand
    is light
    whose truth
    sense mind
    is just enough
    to shield me
    what else than nothing
    can I bear
    what but nothing
    do I have
    to share will
    those giants
    shrink their castles
    break will
    my blood translate
    their speak
    and think-
    am I deranged
    or evolving from another
    change feels loose
    and thin
    skinned boneless notion
    and a smacker-tin
    clear frames of
    slow motion lightning
    boldness show up step
    away from this
    as it crumbles
    consider then
    or prink your shadow
    self again

  51. no god
    no god
    only science
    to explain
    the silence
    your first
    thought is
    a loss
    with half-answers
    beautiful that
    you ask
    you don’t recieve
    what you
    want changes
    in the now
    that moment
    of no-thought
    the promises
    you made
    yourself alone
    made the present pleasant
    a warm room with
    beautiful mosiac
    walls and ceiling-high
    fell flat upon itself
    crumbled in the
    rising sun
    and you sit
    acheing again
    in the same bones
    of yesterday
    what changes
    is the moment
    where time
    doesn’t exist
    grasping it
    is cruel
    only felt when
    given up
    how many times
    i’ve done that
    only to need

  52. …wild oating…
    …wild oating…

    any ole dude or dudette can write a poem.
    just start spilling words, don’t even have to rhyme.
    forget forms and traditions and draw them words.

    any ole chump or chick can make a bed.
    pull them sheets tight, tuck them under good.
    puff up them pillows and stretch out long and lean.

    any ole hunk or floozy can do a dance.
    start tapping the feet, pop the arm movements.
    make wild eyes and suck in your cheeks.

    any ole amigo or senorita can sing a song.
    sing without holding back, articulate the endings.
    close your eyes if you must and just wail.

    any ole father or mother can make a baby or three.
    stick around for the raising, its your life’s work.
    you already had your chance to go wils oating.

  53. broken branches, unter haikus
    broken branches, unter haikus & strange brushes with pseudo-anarchists & self-confessed closet neocons…

    tax and spend statists
    take your freedom with a smile
    we forge our own chains…

    marxists in black robes
    NO living constitution
    judging activist…

    hope and change gone sour
    divides a country once strong

    fourth estate hack jobs
    agendas disguised as news
    no escape from noise…

    feed the hungry gods
    long checklists for salvation
    cleric in a box…

    freedom never free
    crowd sourced tyrant banners fly
    silence is consent…

  54. A Crumbling Mumble
    A Crumbling Mumble

    let your prophets stand
    on their own feet
    let your books speak
    for themselves

    Holy? holy?
    scolded by moldy time
    folded into the only Light
    delve into the night
    seen hell, felt nigh
    a bold and lonely sight
    Heaven held high–

    let your prayer follow
    your done deeds
    let your Lord rejoice
    content with his creation

    are you tickilish?
    are you afraid of death?

    that funny, beautiful embrace
    that final, divine union

    where the end is the beginning
    to a mind that cannot conceive
    of an ending–

    where love desceds from the
    stars and planets and puts it’s
    atoms in the heart,

    where blood is no longer currency
    where flesh is no longer monument

    where justice rests
    upon the wings of angels
    and not upon the hands of men

    what do you build?

  55. Spring Clean…
    Spring Clean…

    I awake, dull crusted in shadows

    to the swelling roar of hard rain on shingles
    wetly dripp’d down rusted gutters

    air thick with cool moisture
    ozone sharp razor clean

    somehow the sod grew a deep green coat in one night
    as dogwoods shed blossoms like fragrant dandruff

    when did spring arrive?
    my mind still bundled in deep winter time

    ghosts of snowfields, untouched by sun,
    blanket my mood in a stiller time

    now shattered by detonations of life
    melted by pollen, infused with wind

    scintillant bands of light burn laser bright
    through pregnant clouds rain gray

    beams playing like shiny faeries on the sill
    as a weird biology compels me to awake

    rush headlong onto verdant lea
    dervish twirled and humid breathed

    but lightswitched it’s gone
    thunderheads roll like playground bullies

    smearing runnels on the window
    dogwood prismed to a streak

    as I shrink back to a pillow

    smelling faintly of grass.

  56. Summer came early
    Summer came early
    They broke camp when
    the thunder cracked
    & rain exploded
    Bring on May flowers

  57. “Cat Scat Penny Haiku”
    “Cat Scat Penny Haiku”
    By Steve Plonk

    There’s a smell wafting through the air
    Coming from our litter box right over there
    Please scoop it there & scoop it here,
    Oh please scoop our litter box:
    Get up from your chair.

    When you scoop our litter box
    It helps us with our biological clocks
    We know when it is time now
    We cry loudly & sometimes yowl…
    While you’re watching the “idiot box”…

    A little mess here, a little mess there
    Soon adds to the smell within in the air,
    Sometimes we think caretakers have no
    Sense of smell,
    It’s hard to know , it’s hard to tell.

    Oh please scoop our litter box:
    Get up from your chair!
    Are you deaf in one ear?
    Can’t you hear us yell?
    Oh, please clean our litter box.
    Then we’ll be able to chill…

    April , 2013

  58. .the arrangements are tight.
    .the arrangements are tight. ..added a solo verse with a haunting guitar.. …the message was too overpowering… ….directly from the seat of the soul…. …..that martin had a clean noise….. …….minor chords filling the space…….

    .the sword was the word. ..riffs and sounds never heard.. …edgar winter group was big back then… ….mexican horns and strings…. …..that jumping part needs it’s own stage….. ……backup singer sounds just like stevie nicks……

    .my seagull’s getting a tuneup. ..polish the frets and a perfect bow.. …sam houston died a sad man… ….should have never joined the yankees…. …..look south my frontier brothers….. ……covert designs and all……

    .follow the moon. ..keep the peace as long as we can.. …hypocrites will talk of reasonableness… ….politicians will make back room deals…. …..leaders will smell of grease….. ……occupiers will rise again……

    .double standards and broken promises. ..microphone jackson with stars in his eyes.. …the music of generations… ….layers of tracks of sounds…. …..they been claimed by the king….. ……soon they’ll be going home……

  59. A Man Who Sings To Bees…
    A Man Who Sings To Bees…

    I heard a sound
    lilting like reed pipes
    wending through air
    grown heavy in dusklight
    sultry and organic
    rising from behind
    a pasture heavy with
    coarse hairs and droppings
    horses and their liquid eyes,
    shedding winter coats
    (and masticated oats)
    even they know
    they’re only scenery
    whithers to the woodline
    as a shadow rocks
    hypnotic rhythm timed
    to cicadas and honeybees
    a man
    a man who sings to bees?
    rushing to challenge
    a stranger in the yard I find
    him hatless in the swirling
    humming to himself
    to the hive
    to the dusk
    to his dark leather shoes
    turned just slightly away
    profiled yet indistinct
    wordlessly he sings
    to wounded hearts
    wistful hopes
    futures lost
    and silently I lie down beside
    wild onion, cooling grass
    listening to the beating heart
    deeply thrumming on the comb
    modulated voice, concert of a soul
    ort of treble, rumbled bass
    and opening my eyes I see
    no man
    no music
    only bees
    and me.

  60. Googling I found
    Googling I found
    a site that was
    oogling over the
    pre-’04 Litkicks boards
    It was an insane party
    I guess you had to be there
    Nothing like it in cyberspace
    Not then
    Not now
    Probably not ever again
    Got my wired ass going
    many a night, while we
    had our word fun
    Yet that was then and
    this is whatever it is
    in this era of desensitization
    Waiting for the axe to fall

  61. Poetic Action, Poet Reaction,
    Poetic Action, Poet Reaction, PDfreakinQ…

    the pen
    chewed cap
    and emptied cartridge
    as my yen
    burns like an addict’s fire
    palm sweat on parchment
    syllables, prosody
    sans serif mind flow
    while demure muses
    whisper soft moisture
    follicle and promise
    into my thought train
    running like a hangnail
    raking blank canvas
    flecked in textured ink
    and immovable type
    scrivened on envelopes
    spilt on torn napkins
    blown out on e-pages
    squirt into ether
    no action
    no traction
    cry out for
    the verse
    is mightier
    than the

  62. I want a cigarette
    I want a cigarette

    writers must write
    they are in real trouble
    most of the time
    I could have coffee all night

    hi! I want to greet one
    seeing only good people around
    I want an opponent
    I really long to see that man

    as I walked through the audience last night
    strangers touched and tweaked me
    I want to speak with him about
    realities we see

    I love how we talk in film dialogues of pointless poetry so awkwardly
    and stop from time to time and wonder
    waiting for the laughter or a commercial break
    that would save us from each other

    very soon my contract will expire
    but it’s so good to be no fuck up
    for a while – like home
    no I won’t smoke

  63. to the doubters of dreams,
    to the doubters of dreams, myself
    to the haters of peace, myself
    to the gatherers of shadows, my mind
    to the forecast of ignorance, my light

    i live in a city where
    the weatherman is prophet,
    where blood is anonymous
    and badges are coated in gold

    where skin is thin yet
    its color is thick
    where the needs of the city
    is flesh and it wants
    bones that are young,
    where harassment is a given
    and torment goes unnoticed
    because of its prevelance–

    peel yr mask back
    put yr gat down
    put yr light up

    love what you are
    and your mistakes
    will adorn you

    give what you have
    and nothing
    can be

  64. Chaos Makers
    Chaos Makers
    Words like abuse & chaos
    come to mind
    Demons lurking within our midsts
    Unfortunately they are usually in
    positions of power, whip in hand
    Get it done & bottom $$$$ lines
    rule their every move
    All in the name of some kind of
    glossed over safety face that’s
    there to keep the insurance
    companies off their backs
    It’s the same game, been going
    on for centuries
    The reason the pyramids were
    allowed to rise on the sweat of
    slave labor
    It’s how that Great Wall was strung
    all the way across northern China
    to keep out the Mongol hordes
    Railroads in the 19th century
    Tall concrete structures on this
    very day, built on man’s & woman’s
    breaking backs
    The Chaos Makers ready to heap on the

  65. ..the blind are the lucy ones
    ..the blind are the lucky ones.
    ..the deaf are at peace.
    ..the mute are wise and happy.
    ..the numb get along just fine.

  66. The Month of Dead Sparrows
    The Month of Dead Sparrows

    April is the month of dead sparrows
    in my pillow case
    in the vegetable crisper
    stuffed in the mailbox
    with the junk mail
    I find them everywhere
    I am in a movie starring dead sparrows
    I am married to a dead sparrow
    all my children are sparrows
    dead in the nest
    opening my mouth
    a sparrow
    lies dead on my tongue
    thinking, all my thoughts
    are dusty dead sparrows
    on the corner of Broad & Monmouth
    a small girl
    with a basket of dead sparrows
    wants to sell me a dead sparrow
    what is it
    with all these dead sparrows
    a shopkeeper sweeps a pile
    of dead sparrows
    from the front of his shop
    in the church there’s a sermon
    on dead sparrows
    an old woman fell asleep
    with her mouth open in an armchair
    in her very own parlor
    & choked to death
    on a dead sparrow
    I heard of this in a café
    where they were scooping dead sparrows
    from the coffee urns
    a cop was telling the story
    as he shook out his coat sleeves
    came three more dead sparrows
    Christ we’re up to our ass
    a stockbroker said
    in dead sparrows
    impossible you’d think to forget
    the dead sparrows heaped eight inches deep
    in the streets
    the trucks going by pushing plows
    through dead sparrows
    the sight of the river now a river
    of dead sparrows
    but forget it we will
    it’s forgotten already
    except you wake up one day with a sadness
    you can’t pin to a cause
    & it never goes away
    it’s the month of dead sparrows
    the very first day.

  67. toity poiple boids, dehd
    toity poiple boids, dehd upahn da coib,
    noh muh chiopin or boipin, or eatin doity woims…

    I found a dead sparrow this morning
    sideways on the stoop
    strangely unblooded
    gifted by clever cats
    if fed my morning reverie
    always heavy on my shoulders
    in the early frozen hours
    of frost’s last gasp
    my damp spring mantle
    as I cling to a fading memory
    of my father and his voice
    slow step and aqua velva
    now etched in lonely stonework
    small words for larger deeds
    and look at the small sparrow
    with its lifespan like a handclap
    and wonder if a creator
    so vastly beyond time
    just got bored with forever
    and thought for shitz’n giggles
    I’ll make frantic mud men
    amok among creation
    with half-lives of remembrance
    lasting only as whispers in wind
    or one (maybe two) generations
    if our names are on a label
    or painted into frames
    hung in plush hallways,
    ignored by commuters
    too busy dying themselves
    or just one of the unlucky ones
    who bleed out on front pages
    and wonder to myself
    as I drag the last few gasps
    from my cigarette of choice
    if I’m the cat
    or the sparrow…

  68. I lie
    I lie
    flat on my stomach
    breathe flat too
    and my wrist lies
    next to my forehead
    and is just much too thin
    for my working-hand!
    I’m naked I turn
    my head my face and there
    you lie
    I see your mind I swear and a shoulder
    your upper arm and below feet
    You sleep like a shame
    how beautiful you are
    naked and lying next to me
    I must be somehow quietly
    very still until you wake up
    then you will come to me

  69. ..the next einstein..
    ..the next einstein..

    .not sure we’ll exist in heaven. .maybe we’ll just hover. .possibly we’ll squirm. .we could be forever asleep. .one huge long dream. .chased by a robber. .floating on clouds lightly. .reading minds and healing. .all the wounds of life. .disappear into space. .perhaps a disco ball hangs in the middle of it all. .glittering the black punkishly. .spinning always. .momentum has never stopped. .crowds of the faithful await. .knowing nothing but believing. .the truth glows in our souls. .rings in our ears. .shines in our eyes. .outlasting the old folks. .penetrating the bleak. .the next Einstein. .writing on a chalkboard. .blowing the minds of the young .your will is always corrupted. .your ways are always selfish. .your knowledge is wrong. .only the word. .only the word is love.

  70. Running thru the words, scat
    Running thru the words, scat singin at the bar, not drinking just reading it off the iPad, continuous flow action writin as the food flys by and the feet stomp upon old downtown floors, a rhapsody moment brings a tear to Kayleigh’s eye as she shows me her artwork recovered from dumpster and framed, another day in the cafe as the espresso machine churns and the milk steams in mighty reverie….

  71. lonely dreams & lucid nights.
    lonely dreams & lucid nights…

    stop throbbing temple
    blood pounded sight
    dim daydreamt corneas
    surround sharp morning light

    hidden heart whispers
    raging wan muffled souls
    desire stoked embers
    burn kiln shattered bowls

    dermis flayed pilgrims
    gnaw darkly smoked bones
    slag dwelling convicts
    flee coke crumbled clones

    fly, fly away from
    a wasteland of sorrows
    as ash can yesterdays spill
    into flashpoint tomorrows

    is there only the now
    present here in this spot
    downshift stonebreak and self speak
    ungoverned egos run hot

    blur sky, photochrome
    squint into ink acid haze
    peer at forever
    as the danse macabre plays…

  72. Patience

    i’m waiting for the president to ditch
    his suit and tie and give his speech
    in his underwear, looking down
    at his crotch instead of teleprompters

    i’m waiting for star’d generals to
    dismiss their soldiers and abandon
    the armies and instead commit themselves
    to mental hospitals where they will
    play dominoes and grow arugula

    i’m waiting for Bob Marley
    to visit his own grave, after catching
    a flight from an unknown island
    in the Bermuda Triangle and
    return again to the stage where his song
    is forgiveness and standing tall

    i’m waiting for Bob Kaufman
    to delete the month of April
    from all calendars everywhere
    and instead replace it with a joint
    of marijuana sprinkled with hash oil
    and chanting his song of silence
    until every child understands beggars

    i’m waiting for the inventors of bombs
    to fall to their knees and ask God
    if he can spare a lollipop or mercy
    or whatever is His will until they
    realize bombs don’t kill the soul
    that is eternal, only the body which
    is already weak and seeking a way out

    i’m waiting for bones to set up
    a family reunion with dust so they
    can familiarize with each other after so
    much time apart, and get drunk and
    tell each other their memories of their
    long lost friend freedom who they
    invited but did not give
    an RSVP soon enough

    i’m waiting for politicians to
    explode to pieces once they learn
    what their names mean to people in
    homes they will never visit or pass out
    from dehydration so Americans can
    put red white and blue marigolds
    in their mouths

    i’m waiting for Jesus to return
    to earth hopefully on TV at
    Pat Robertson’s church so He can
    nullify all of those speeches and
    take back the wine that is His blood
    and drink it until he’s drunk to remind
    the congregation that they are cannibals

    i’m waiting for roses to blossom
    upside down so i can dream of
    picking them, admire the roots and
    pour beer into their soil so they
    will talk to me and answer my
    questions about the scarcity of spider webs

    i’m waiting for my broom to grow
    legs so i don’t have to push it any longer
    and instead sing to it the song that was
    cradled by Coltrane’s cheeks when he
    blew deep, wordless wisdom
    into the night and day and to anybody
    who has ears let them hear

    i’m waiting for my collar to pop itself
    so my neck will no longer be lonely
    and can cuddle with cotton late into
    the night on the couch watching reruns
    of The Simpsons while sipping screw drivers
    where the orange juice was poured first

    i’m waiting for the sun and moon
    to make love so i can raise their children
    as the stars they are and were born to be
    and they will not be afraid
    of heights because i’ll teach them
    to never look down

    i’m waiting for Johnny Cash
    to put his middle finger in
    the guns of all police officers
    everywhere so no more men
    will be shot for reaching
    at their empty wallets

    i’m waiting for every single diamond
    to return to Africa and for Bill
    Gates to get out of there so the
    worth of the people can be recognized
    as something of themselves that
    they always owned and it was only
    an illusion that it could be taken

    i’m waiting for architects to
    collect every single snow flake
    that ever fell so they can throw
    them back to the clouds in order
    to be undisturbed by their own vomit

    i’m waiting to eat my wallet
    so i can get out or get gout
    or be given any disease that
    i would never wish on you
    i am alive i think

    i’m waiting for the Bible to be
    translated into the heart’s language
    so there will be no more misunderstandings
    or contradictions and people will
    no longer put their hands into flames
    but instead meditate on the power
    of sour apples and tree trunks

    i’m waiting for the first law
    of nature to rewrite itself
    upon the tongues of mothers
    so when they kiss their children
    they will know they are loved and
    that their feet are gallons of milk

    i’m waiting for truth to grow
    a mustache so you will not recognize
    it by its appearance but by what
    it possesses when it uses your wine glass
    as a toilet and gives you
    frozen strawberries for breakfast

    i’m waiting for Eckhart Tolle
    to abandon his lips and instead
    speak the stillness with his dance
    so everyone can know what it feels
    like when desire and need are happily married

    i’m waiting for a sneeze to
    turn into a prayer or a prayer
    to turn into white gauze
    that turn red because for every
    brain there is a bayonet but
    for every mind there is a galaxy

    i’m waiting for Hafiz
    to get drunk it won’t take long
    so i can talk to him about
    suffering and leather and tears
    and evolution and chocolate until a smile emerges

    i’m waiting for my dreams to realize
    compassion and hope are weapons
    so when i sit down to meditate
    i can put this planet in my hands
    and learn to love it All
    no matter what

  73. Like lemon juice ink
    Like lemon juice ink
    Webs appear across the lawn
    Dew on the pasture

  74. …mud rains…
    …mud rains…

    …in the afternoon the skies were red. wind had all day to cause the big dust up. dirt in mouths and cussing. day after day is blew. followed by mud rains and temporary calm…

  75. cinquains, hypocrites, and
    cinquains, hypocrites, and thugs…slipping on shards of broken glass…

    may day
    masked thugs gather
    raised fist running dogs scream
    righteous with Nikes and iPhones
    go home

  76. …fish belly…
    …fish belly…

    …fish belly they called him. beat that bass all day. take after take. tuning by ear, tapping his feet. he shut his mind off. the real twist comes next. asian women in silk, smiling and paying close attention. stomach was white as a white crayola. that’s the reason for the fish belly name. gotta have a blues name. but it has to be given to you. fish belly is good. like Jonah, defiant but still smart. the wisdom of fear. stackabones has a good blues name. guitar player, that dude. whip out a song. three layers of thought. fish belly is good.

  77. In an instant
    In an instant
    Thoughts come
    Rattling in my brain
    Dancing words
    Action up again

  78. …sick sweat…
    …sick sweat…

    …arms heavy and slow…feet dragging and flat…a head full of stuffing…a sick sweat…in the late spring humidity…lungs shut off and full of webs…wheezing and coughing…waves of warm buzz…the silence breaks with screeching…the dim begins to glow…tossing and turning til two…Sandy lake days…they’ll ride anything…laughing and getting soaked…happy days are here again…

  79. …the theory of proximity…
    …the theory of proximity…

    Proximity is essential for productive management and leadership. Greater than strategy, greater than goals, greater than fear. Understanding the operation, knowing the challenges, listening to others.

    Supported with an efficient and strictly executed communications strategy, this proximity will lead to effective decision making and a collaborative culture.

    Benefits of a collaborative culture and effective decision making are good strategy and tactical execution.

    Benefits of good strategy and tactical execution are profits for reinvestment, pocket cash, and continuing prospects.

  80. broken mandelas, bad rhymes,
    broken mandelas, bad rhymes, and boots stamping on faces….

    one hand clap,

    head trippin’
    on the road without a map,

    buddha’s holy rap,

    no self
    nirvana’s just a trap,

    rocket trip
    crashing down
    head ringin’ trigger slap,

    herbal tea
    messiah takes a nap,

    broken flags
    burnin’ toys
    helmet hammer double tap,

    win some
    lose more
    karma takes another lap…

  81. Put on something nice
    Put on something nice
    go seeing you

    do not understand
    be not understood

    give whatever you accept
    absorb whatever you share


    Go begging
    mourn with lamentation


  82. ..from where thought is
    ..from where thought is formed..

    *to the searchers of glory, the finders of mercy, the shame inspired, the guilt inspired, the tuned out. *turn your attention to important matters, take a moment to consider, salvation and how it all turns out.

    *get away from your worn path and walk across the streets, through the fields, over the divides. *plan to use some time to follow the hunch, check out the tip, learn a bit more, follow the night lights.

    *go to the edge, the very tip of the cliff, peer over and stare at the earth, it’s peaks and valleys and ruts. *think of looking from space like a satellite, watching from the stars, telescopes fixed on all of us.

    *scurrying about like chaotic soldiers, waiting for the next command, standing and glowing on the dock *spotlight the unknown, tune into the unheard, illuminate the unseen, speak the unspeakable, eat the rot.

    *chime in with your opinions you busy minds, pretend to understand, pretend to try, through the motions. *knock back two or three and drink a glass of tea in between, close your eyes and think of the ocean.

    *the globe shaking always, sending waves thousands of miles, water always finding it’s way to land. *alone on this lifeboat, gasping for humid air, humming always and thinking of for the band.

    *mind control of sorts, occupiers of it’s time, it’s reflexes and currents, from where thought is formed. *sometimes called the soul, it is actually a function of our brain, where truth is known and sin is born.

  83. I told her I saw an owl in
    I told her I saw an owl in the stars
    She gave me blood,
    I drank up all the wine

    Sad and ecstatic,
    smiling at my decay

  84. Wired producer
    Wired producer
    Brooksian Pop manifestation
    My star a risin’
    Wanting to be a raisin
    In the sun.

    Dream last night
    So real that I
    Wanna go back
    It’s where I belong
    E I E I O
    Country girl
    Tall columns on the
    lawn, O girl
    You know I want to
    see you, all alone….all alone.

  85. ..preventing gravity..
    ..preventing gravity..

    .the constant talk of emotions and motions .going through them for certain .welling up when thinking of the tragedy .one for the other .equal in impact and consequences .changed into something .the Lord is the remaining link .preventing music like preventing gravity .bands of clowns left for eternity .mocked forever .hard of hearing .the mercy shown .perhaps we refine the guidelines .update the parameters .in light of the new understanding .and abandonment .hit the links .go with pastels .respectability in the shadow of shame .worst case scenario always possible .mostly unlikely.

  86. ..whispering girls..
    ..whispering girls..

    just you and the ants now. no one hardly talks anymore.

    been feeling low on the inside. like an accepted fate.

    whatever that could be. a race car driver.

    hitting the banks hard. hoping for the rubber to grip.

    which one of us is going to break. who is the engineer. who is the artist.

    the ability to create. a ninety degree day.

    humid sweat pours from your skin. heat and nerves collide.

    dreamed that I dreamed I saw an asteroid pass by. winked at me as it streaked by.

    firey ball with a smokey tail. the whispering girls got hate in their hearts. as we all do.

    envy and insecurities. left everyone out at some point.

    endure the pain. understand the disappointment.

    love anyway.

  87. Feeling that the sting was
    Feeling that the sting was coming
    Ominous, hanging over the day
    like the cusp of a darker void
    Writing songs, hearing sounds
    I come home to hear that my inspirer
    has passed on
    Rest in peace Ray Manzarek

  88. you can go back but yeah yeah
    you can go back but yeah yeah yeah it will never be like it was…

    travelling to my never was,
    my yearly time in the yard
    spring time back to cold Ohio
    gripped in nonsense and melancholy
    I travel to old town
    misted by the cuyahoga
    surprised yet not I find
    they tore down the tottered house
    tar paper and clapboard
    hoary hand pump out front
    jutting out of upturned earth
    like an oxidized finger accusing
    at broken chimney
    collapsed walls
    19th century brickwork sharded
    toppeled into fetid basins
    the neighborhood harshbitten scar
    open wounded by the treelawn
    old man who once lived there
    trapped in darkness and exile
    haunts it no longer
    memory freed
    by oiled machinery and progress
    rooftop split
    like broken amphora
    scattered on the seabed
    and so floats my enmity
    thermal up and away
    updraft and ashes
    drift’n round bulldozers and scaffold
    dissipating on warmer breezes
    as if it never was…

  89. what happens most mornings of
    what happens most mornings of course
    remains unspoken, and even to begin
    this was difficult, to place the hands here
    on the keys, to say ‘yes i have something
    to say and i wish to say it here’, that my
    life has some value, that the noise is not
    all there is, though it feels like the noise
    is all there is sometimes, the noise, you
    know, the noise, you know it, the noisy noise
    that noises its way into your noise and
    you can’t hear or see or taste or feel
    anything but the noise which is noiseless
    and doesn’t know anything and even if
    it did it wouldn’t tell you anyway because
    you’re stupid and everyone knows that
    so there so there so there so there you go


  90. Still
    Dark, black light. You see very little but not nothing – that would be ‘free’ – rather to much. Too close. Too tight. A too high frequency of information and of stimulus. A density too close. Much too close. So close it blocks, it’s locking anything. So nothing can enter and nothing … can escape. Nothing comes in and nothing gets out. Nothing. The outside world is a tremendous armor. Inside, however, there is: infinite depth. That depth draws you down. Inside you be pulled away – away from body and away from time. Outside is dangerous – no, rather meaningless – and full of overwhelming emptiness. Tells you nothing. Says too much to ever understand. Demands from you. Anything. Shoves you back in. Wants something. Wants. Besets you. Gives you but no incentive to move. Does not move you. Swallows each impulse. So you cannot move by your own force itself. Cannot make a sound. Not even aspirate. Outside eats ideas. Therefore, you fall into the inside. Slump down. Drop back into yourself by detaching nerves from nerves and nerves from muscles. You disable and dissolve synapses. Reaction becomes impossible. Also unnecessary. No connection. But separation, dissolution, relaxation. But wholly you can not…that far you can not go, not yet. You know of limitations. And know of finitude. You know about the outside and its light. And dynamics you know, and forms and connections you… don’t want to let go of. Not yet. Unavoidable. Uncomfortable, that outer side will sure catch up to you. When you return. You stave it off and linger on. The longer the delay, the longer you’re away, the more complex, the wider grows the chaos awaiting you out there — outside, where I lay and where I lisped my ‘Sh’sss’…Sorry but I couldn’t wait… no more

  91. ..kanyeoke..

    .it should not be tolerated.. ..certainly not applauded.. called new slaves.. ..performer will go unnamed.. ..bout the dumbest thing i’ve heard.. ..yes, vulgar and idiotic.. ..self pity on steroids.. ..a 1st grader throwing an adult fit.. ..he gonna bust stuff up.. ..wonder what the marketing department thinks.. ..street cred man, street cred.. ..all those simple minds out there will buy it up.. ..i know it ain’t music.. with instruments and stuff.. ..but he’s on the mic.. ..owning the stage.. ..wanna sell more t shirts.. ..the fashion industry awaits.. test out the new fabrics.. change the scene.. throw out the old and sell in the new.. ..on a three year cycle.. ..for the mainline trends.. ..perpetual and sustainable growth model.. ..the consumer’s responsibility.. ..and addiction.. ..back to the kanyeoke performer.. ..why don’t you call a news conference.. ..tell us why you ain’t gonna take it no more.. ..the injustices shown.. ..the irs done done you wrong.. did that dude in the hamptons.. really do that to his wife.. ..don’t tear me down.. ..don’t air me out.. ..this other dude with sandals and a robe got my ear.. ..teaching about the patient and kind.. ..preaching bout faith and love.. ..proclaim Him as your slave master..

  92. Im beginning to like you
    Im beginning to like you
    You don’t get on my nerves like
    All of the others.
    Im beginning to think i could
    Take you seriously
    I mean with most people
    It’s like every conversation is
    A kind of test
    Like i ain’t really talking
    Im just trying not to look like a mug
    But with you
    With you its different
    And i feel like i can be myself
    Even when im in a bad mood
    I aint worried
    Not much
    Because you understand
    I know you mean it
    You mean it and i mean it
    And that well that
    Well that means everything
    I like you

  93. monkeys in cages, eating one
    monkeys in cages, eating one’s own liver, and temper, temper little man…

    in our temperate dimension
    brimfull of flesh humour
    life’s grand arena
    we’re all made
    champions of Nod
    with laurel wreaths of
    hot wire and gristle,
    with gilded medallions hung
    on faded ribbon,
    bent when bitten,
    signifying nothing,
    echoing hollow cries
    of fickle crowds that don’t give a damn
    huzzahs sharp with only a blood thirst,
    we shred,
    we claw,
    we saw all the bones,
    crazy for the marrow,
    sprinkle a scalp with love or not,
    marinate with greedy benedictions,
    basted in the eyes of grinning gods,
    with just a jigger
    of black hate and conviction
    anyone can feast like horselords
    racing hot winds on the plain
    zealot riders of a crimson sage
    in their longhouses darkly lie
    gorging upon
    flesh of ourselves
    sizzle crack’d on spits
    turned slowly
    by shrouded imps
    ghastly grinning
    at the joke
    that no one gets…

  94. …toymaker man…
    …toymaker man…

    .the loss of heroes
    .when all the worthy died off
    .fought in every war he possibly could

    .flew planes
    .and dropped bombs

    .shined his shoes bright
    .glowed even at night
    .when the children came

    .one after your own heart
    .one a free spirit child
    .never in a million years would we guess he would pass

    .he attended all the funerals
    .never would he be honored
    .unexplainable and unlogical

    .busy mind of service
    .til the end
    .toymaker man

    .sweet gal she was too
    .looked you in the eyes
    .enjoyed your joy

    .next door neighbors to blood relatives
    .finally I found you
    .set up from the start

    .in tennis shape
    .the highkick queen
    .another one on the loose

    .complete with a protector
    .warrior child
    .she will stand up for something very big one day

    .for all the right reasons
    .taught perseverance
    .creates hope

    .smarter than all
    .phase six or seven
    .can’t keep track

    .the canyons are deep
    .carved from rock
    .water again the creator.

  95. i shatter and throw myself
    i shatter and throw myself
    at the music, i am made
    whole in silence

  96. i hurl water in the face
    i hurl water in the face
    of everyone; go away!
    I want to be a knuckle
    on the hand of a giant,
    carried everywhere, low
    at his side.

    in timorous beginnings i might
    get away with a whipser
    when you ask me
    what i’m thinking when i’m
    nothing at all.

    seed blow seed blow love love
    kiss grow find find find love love

    all our troubles

    not far away

    more ready
    to teach us
    something new.

  97. Feline Sonnet
    Feline Sonnet

    That abstract form in patterned space
    Such a glossy shape of fatal ambience
    Seamless as a renaissance masterpiece
    A perfect camouflage of purring violence

    Such is the guise of its killing insouciance
    Everything within its finite seeing grace
    Is infinitely absorbed by its arrogance
    Fashioned fatal in vestments of innocence

    This nine-lifed four-limbed feline deity
    With the double brace of hearing vision
    Multiplying itself in languorous proximity
    Fading into landscape of distant singularity
    The symmetry of the poet’s infatuation
    A creature writ in another hands heaven.

  98. would that i were a cat
    would that i were a cat —
    o to be as sudden as that!–
    my only concern the size of the sun,
    my movement a movement begun.

    would that i were on a fencepost
    thinking a fluff of nothing.

    ‘i have marked my territory,
    my whiskers are straight and true,
    my paws are here to clean me,
    to knead you, and to need you too.’

  99. I hope you enjoy my poem. Not
    I hope you enjoy my poem. Not spring in my part of the world (Melbourne, Australia)

    They skipped laughing through teeming splashing winterdark nights,
    rode jostling trams on slicktrack city streets, red lights winking, wipers thack-thacking, where crowds leant as one lumbering animal into the night, heads bowed to fat rain drops; thinking of home.

  100. “one lumbering animal”
    “one lumbering animal”
    ha, great!

    outside, the old man leans across
    the fence and talks.
    it is hot and he is ill,
    but it is good for him to be out in the sun.
    my brother is being positive with him.
    his friend, possibly his lover,
    a man who borrowed and then repaid in time
    200 pounds
    from my brother,
    sits in a wooden outdoor chair asking who i fancy
    for the champions league final tonight
    i tell him i would like to see the underdogs wins
    and he agrees.

  101. I absolutely love Feline
    I absolutely love Feline Sonnet by Duncan Brown
    I have been thinking about cats a lot recently for some reason and this
    is such a brilliant description so poetically written – very powerful and beautiful.

  102. Action combustion
    Action combustion
    Trusting your 1st thought
    Jumpin into the sink or swim
    In need of the word parade
    Flowing down the page
    Like in those good old action days
    Yet now they are gone
    The program we’re working with
    singin a different song
    12 years down, still walking
    that action line

  103. …sons of patriots…
    …sons of patriots…

    …who can they destroy that will really make a point… …what can they banish that will let them all know… …why would they stop and call the game over… …where is our life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness… …when are we going to realize they left us…

    .create something new. .call it the sons of patriots. .glowface organization. .standards set. .children unlabled.

    the spineless and compromisers are unwelcome. the weak conformers to this world. reformers are needed. creators are needed. truth is needed. you ruiners of liberty stand down! silence, you destroyers of peace! the sons of patriots is talking to you, IRS. red flag routing, i’m sure. built on a transparent process of greed and bribery. the lobby girls and boys got cash to throw around. millionaires by the million. government work ain’t what it used to be. D.C., the dump home of the redskins, the richest town in america. to protect and serve alright. protect the grease shop and serve themselves.

    …walked them mountains of philmont… …sweet sixteen… …diver down… …a chick friend… …california calvin… …root beers… …tent city… …chili at a chuck wagon stop… …a snake is in the grass… …those pine bluff dudes were cool… …happiest on the trail… …teddy roosevelt fishing cabin… …homemade flies and screened porches…

  104. Another one about cats:
    Another one about cats, entitled:

    Would that I were on a fencepost, thinking a fluff of nothing

    born to watch: every footstep might be a meal.
    so much more than parasite, they stalk us too
    for love: that uncatly feel of fingers in fur. gods
    to them—though we sneer at doorstep offerings
    of mouse and raggedy bird, and offer no applause
    for the midnight song of their yowlings—they both
    fear us and love us, need us and want to break free.
    in night-gardens they taste it, but soon grow tired
    of danger and, slinking home like heroes, dream
    of warm laps, of food offered up in a bowl, clean water,
    and a dry place set aside for peaceful feline slumber.

  105. ..good old days..
    ..good old days..

    .never want to be a good old days dude.
    .mainly, they are just old.
    .some were good, in fact.
    .many were good.
    .but they were.
    .some were down right awful.
    .but they were too.
    .gone, past, history.
    .the order always changes.
    .evolution of activity.
    .spending time.
    .we spend and spend and spend.
    .through the dull and electric.
    .set your conditions.
    .move like water.
    .settle in the cracks.
    .rush over rock.
    .search for gravity.
    .give life.
    .refresh the parched.
    .clean the muddy.
    .water never goes back.
    .where all the heartache is left out.
    .when pain was not felt.
    .right now is the good day.
    .tomorrow just a hopeful transpiring.
    .make this day about what inspires you.
    .make right now about taking a sip of coffee.
    .we got nothing to worry about.
    .it won’t do any good.
    .you’ve done what you can do.
    .anxiety not made for the uncontrollable.
    .it is a reflex of the mind.
    .control what you can through decisions.
    .and actions, of course.
    .integrity is the link between decisions and actions.
    .good intentions are just that.

  106. I am kilter, slightly off.
    I am kilter, slightly off. Fetch me
    The crockery. I wish to have some fun
    With a hammer. Do you know what it is like
    To have a face
    A wounded sun? You do?
    Good then. Pass me the hammer.
    Let’s have some fun.

    What is the stark bevilment of the outside
    Compared to these walls
    Who cause evades me?

    Someone in the glitterbag of the universe
    Must know what I mean by silence.

    Someone must see the maths of me
    And tremble with forgiveness.

    Someone—who, I don’t know—
    Needs to come soon, come soon
    With groceries, love, and a heart of hearty forgoing,

    With the fuse for the plug for this brain
    That blew two billion years ago, in pain.

  107. No writin from big ole depths
    No writin from big ole depths of belly and mind lookin out on any big world –
    It’s about funny bliss with what you got in the room with you,
    Because everything’s silly in the expanse of the universe and nothing is
    In the expanse of the universe
    I can’t sit in my chair among dirty clothes and bedsheets and sit in serenity with Ray Charles heroin
    cool. . .
    My belly’s full o’ junk food I can’t get in there right now.
    I can’t write from there right now.
    I just like what’s a-gettin’ in my ears and soothing my eyes to gentle haze and workin my fingers—
    Here in my room I ain’t here in my room,
    I’m on Georgia Time.

  108. Silence……..
    Families walk the outside
    I hold down the within
    Beatific day downtown
    Anywhere U.S.A.
    Beginning of hot, hungry, summer
    Cool & blue
    Feeling the everlasting
    We have all been here before
    Beautiful strangers
    Within you/without you
    Make a left at the bottom
    of the hill
    Follow it all the way

    BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM: Slight Return
    By Steve Plonk

    We will fight the enemy on land, sea, in air,
    Shout out the battle cry of freedom,
    If they hide in the caves,
    They’ll find no shelter there—
    Shout out the battle cry of freedom,
    Hurrah for America, Hurrah, folks , hurrah,
    Down with the terrorists,
    Up with the stripes & stars…
    Rally round the flag, Rally round the flag,
    Shout out the battle cry of freedom…
    You may have won a few battles,
    But you will not win the war,
    Shout out the battle cry of freedom,
    Reinforcements have been sent for,
    More fighting is in store,
    Shout out the battle cry of freedom…

    We will find you & defeat you,
    No matter where you are,
    Shout out the battle cry of freedom,
    Watch out for our flag,
    Which bears the stripes & stars,
    Shout out the battle cry of freedom.
    Bin Laden’s been eliminated,
    Soon you will be, too,
    There are many of us here,
    Coming after you…
    Shout out the battle cry of freedom…
    Rally round the stars & stripes
    Rally just once more,
    We will keep up the fight
    Until victory’s in store,
    Shout out the battle cry of freedom…
    Rally round, men & women,
    Rally once again,
    Sound out the battle cry of freedom…

    Memorial Day, 2013

  110. Hot daze
    Hot daze
    2 wire shows
    Tweak time
    Hot daze
    Song writing
    Pleasure on the clock
    Poetry no more open
    Why does it always have
    to turn into an open mike?
    Wondering how many are tuned
    Into this action time?
    Wondering when I’m gonna get down
    with it?
    Hot daze
    Time to get to work

  111. Make a rainbow out of pain,
    Make a rainbow out of pain, though sober don’t reflect on missed chances
    At night in bed
    The demons do not exist though they cry in the wilderness
    Like lambs in bogs with suns that scream at them to die
    Yes I told you I loved you
    But when I was there
    It felt right and I was lost
    And I needed to say something wild
    Hold me
    Hold me
    Let me go
    Then bring me back again and ask me how my day was
    And I will say
    Oh it was fine
    But it was fine
    It was fine today
    And then you will kiss me
    And say
    No my darling
    My darling
    No need to worry now for I am here
    An then that will be fine
    For the lamb and the sun and the reality of the trees
    And I
    To admire forever or until the sun dies of loneliness.

  112. ..aloe vera nights..
    ..aloe vera nights..

    .a cool chill after a massive sweat.freezing while driving the twisting paul got the good bbq.that place on the corner.just a schoolhouse an historical marker now.funderberg place up the dusty road.a field of buried bones.old lady included.lutheran church on the corner.missouri kind.the sunglass wedding.what was he thinking.heard on the right.dinausors in the trees.lookout from the cliff.hug the old oak.from the day folk openings.on the list at tucker hill.the texas garden.front porch picking.white sands in destin.alligator golf and beers.sunburn afternoons aloe vera nights

  113. that is everywhere that is
    that is everywhere that is will break nothing will break free stay here nothing can change all is broken

    when sun first sees life it must weep the good places of the heart are always ready to open we must be strong we must not give up so easily when presented with pain

  114. They stay in
    They stay in
    It’s hot
    AC weak
    Street sweat
    Yet the little kids run
    Temps rise
    Everyone slick
    Some cool
    But not many
    Tans darkening
    Tino wears a sombrero
    over his hard hat
    We dread the 10 hour daze
    Endure them, complaining
    amongst ourselves
    24 #11 bars can take a week
    to thread in a beam
    Still the slab poured Saturday
    I had my wire art on display
    that same night and the tower
    crane operators came with their
    lovely wives
    Air conditioning doing its job this
    morning, must be cool outside

  115. Wilderness

    Knock! Knock!
    Open the gates,
    Enter the pedlar on the streets
    of paradise.
    Snakes traveling across the mountains
    Old king’s tales packed in new jars
    The street lights showing the road to hell,
    I wake up
    to the noise of minstrels,
    and move on to quiet
    shelter from the storm.
    I had to walk through the
    Solitary streets in the night
    the trees add shade to shade
    dream to dream
    and fear to fear.
    I strolled across the forest,
    dreaming of the lost
    beatnik dream.
    Allen Ginsberg maybe,
    or even William Burroughs…
    Surreal imagery of spotless figures
    Radical thoughts of rebellion
    and the eternal sense of freedom…

    Now the mind is clear
    as the cloudless sky.
    Time to make a home in the
    What have i done but moved across
    in time?
    Kicking empty cans
    and making loud noises…
    The hipster dream was better
    The science of the night is
    incomprehensible but true…
    true to the mockery of the old Gods…

    And what should i do before
    I perish?
    perish maybe for food and shelter
    or from a coward war?
    I should build a shrine
    on the roadside
    to tell my next traveler
    that I live here,
    here in this wilderness.

  116. Knock! Knock!
    Knock! Knock!
    Open the gates,
    Enter the pedlar on the streets
    of paradise.
    Snakes traveling across the mountains
    Old king’s tales packed in new jars
    The street lights showing the road to hell,
    I wake up
    to the noise of minstrels,
    and move on to quiet
    shelter from the storm.
    I had to walk through the
    Solitary streets in the night
    the trees add shade to shade
    dream to dream
    and fear to fear.
    I strolled across the forest,
    dreaming of the lost
    beatnik dream.
    Allen Ginsberg maybe,
    or even William Burroughs…
    Surreal imagery of spotless figures
    Radical thoughts of rebellion
    and the eternal sense of freedom…

    Now the mind is clear
    as the cloudless sky.
    Time to make a home in the
    What have i done but moved across
    in time?
    Kicking empty cans
    and making loud noises…
    The hipster dream was better
    The science of the night is
    incomprehensible but true…
    true to the mockery of the old Gods…

    And what should i do before
    I perish?
    perish maybe for food and shelter
    or from a coward war?
    I should build a shrine
    on the roadside
    to tell my next traveler
    that I live here,
    here in this wilderness.

  117. It was velvet and raw,
    It was velvet and raw,

    At the time, I was thinking ,
    Laid now beside all besides ..
    But i couldn’t.
    Slithered away wet and darkened, tainted.
    A creeping remembrance,
    A stuttered thought,
    Tripping on the back of my mind.
    There with velvet and poor beat,
    You attempting the retreat.
    All you.

    Bus 2002

  118. (Really enjoyed the one by
    (Really enjoyed the one by michaelamichael on Saturday, June 1, 2013 04:37 am! Thanks for sharing…)

    fickle hearts and nightsick in the rain…

    dark nights of the heart,
    of the soul, awaiting something
    extended out into a lifetime slowly passing
    all the lonely poets with no paeans to sing

    falling fast like caustic drizzle
    days flow down to lower levels
    burning cateracts and saline
    caught in throats of choking devils

    so melts a life like many
    hungry for both void and sunlight
    seratonin throbb’d and desperate
    love talon torn yet plasma bright

    but memory remains a fickle dove
    fluttered up out up away
    moments gone despite our grasping
    blood feathers molt at end of day

    despite the best intentions
    time decides to grow up fast
    years march past the old reminders
    where even all the heroes came in last…

  119. O golden-hearted ocarina of
    O golden-hearted ocarina of the sun,
    I ride my bike
    Through summer streets

    And see the trudging beasts
    We have become,
    How minds that once could stretch

    Like cats in trees
    Have taken instead to concentration
    And through overuse grown dumb.

  120. Oh, that family tree,
    Oh, that family tree,
    From him to her then me
    Apparently, my ability,
    To raise one eye brow and then the other in a solo dance,
    Comes from you.
    Apparently, my green eyes too.
    Something has gone amiss.
    I’d never explain wrong to a child with the side of a wall.
    I’d never get whatever was got by creating a fall.
    With hiccups and spillages , all art starts the same.
    (Touch her again and you’ll feel it)
    Damn that family tree, first him, then her, then me.

  121. ohjusttosaythat theabovepoem
    ohjusttosaythat theabovepoem byhazelcole isverygoodindeed

  122. Tree and breeze
    Tree and breeze
    and vine and green
    and water and honeysuckle-scent share
    air and time
    And the “All”…
    It breaths as we breath
    On nights like these
    the sky becomes a welcome hammock
    rocking and lulling our busy limbs
    to peace
    And animated clues from leaves
    wave our tattered mind to dreams
    Sodden in the maws of June
    the soft hair of your innocent left forearm
    graces me like silk

  123. static nature.. static nature..

    …thirty thousand years ago a rain drop hit the earth, somewhere near the canyon line. dust kicked up as it made impact, quickly dissolving into the ground. no lasting legacy, not really connected to anything, but the single most important event at that place, at that time. we will debate the meaning of things, unlock mysteries of the mind, but we’ll never completely fulfill our destiny. never completely. no static nature. no static thoughts. now is about execution…

  124. Once, a while ago,
    Once, a while ago,
    Thirteen and injured (like only a thirteen year old can be)
    Probably, more achey and raw than i can ever be again,
    (Who would have thought we were right (trust your children))

    I found a novel on the tube (and have made sure to leave one ever since)
    Mr iain banks (god party with his soul)
    Walking on glass, a lucky find, carried me till morning.
    Here’s an ode.
    Slower now (as am I )
    It’s ok.
    Hi wireman,
    Rest in noise iain banks,
    Love always, onthebus2002

  125. Onthebus…..Hi!

    Should be actin up
    1st thought bestin
    Right bout now

    Producer job slowin down
    Lives need to be lived
    Jobs need to be done
    Early wake up call
    Before the coo of
    the mourning dove

  126. Jack Saint Jack
    Rising, ever rising
    Rambling, got rambling on my mind
    Rambling on my mind
    Throes of expectation
    Never do cease
    “About to bust!”
    Standing at the crossroads
    Knowing it’s all about a guitar

  127. rest assured that this will
    rest assured that this will take
    no time whatever to complete:
    i exist mostly in dingy corners,
    can’t tell my hands from my feet.
    and when i walk down the
    street, often,
    you might have guessed, on
    my hands, the people i meet
    to my feet :”you seem strange,
    not quite under the weather.”
    i flip myself up and face them
    and we stand there like two twigs
    sun. “what do you expect from me,” i say.
    “you do not know
    and i do not know you, and it is unlikely
    that we will find ourselves
    similarly ensconced in public together again.
    and when you see me
    walking on my hands as though
    they were feet, quite taken by surprise,
    then perhaps
    the only thing to do
    is to go into that pub
    and get absolutely fucking shitfaced
    and laugh at anything that moves.”

  128. I offer you this: I take to
    I offer you this: I take to my bed whenever I can …

    (Make it bigger and braver. Stop being full of shit.
    Everyone is scared sometimes but they are only words
    So say them, they might sound ok, look ok, who knows.
    If you keep your mouth closed too long the words will
    All get jumbled up inside you and when you do speak
    Nobody will understand you) …

    I’ll sing then!
    Let mercy come wailing out:

    I see mercy in the mirrors of myself,
    To a polish of delight.

    Um ah
    Um ah
    I wonder sometimes who I am and nothing really bothers me but pain.
    I wonder sometimes who you are and nothing really bother you at all.
    When we lie down our heads allow us the room
    To single out things
    Which matter
    And deserve our full attention
    And like that
    Like that
    Like that
    I suppose we somehow muddle though to morning.

  129. So awoken and stretched out,
    So awoken and stretched out,
    I curl myself beneath and above you,
    Even sleeping, nervousness will arise.

    Closed lash flutterings over a bronzed shoulder,
    I’ll tickle you till exhaustion with this craze.

    It’s only me hun, It’s only Haze.

    With every freckle, line and crevice,
    I can recite you word for word,
    Ducking under passages of your hiccups and burps.

    Thought maybe time had drawn… me from what is,
    the moment of first touch, first kiss.

    Still you surprise me, love.

    We dont read together, sing together, our songs are not the same.
    Still I bow to the curve of your name,

    On my lips, hips, it’s all so insane.
    I’ve got your back, love

    Whatever the game.

  130. i miss the love of not
    i miss the love of not noticing someone is there
    because their being there
    is like the air being there
    because without it
    there is no there
    and there is no you
    and so
    if you find yourself looking back
    and consider how i passed you
    and did not
    tell you
    that you were beautiful
    and that everything
    i ever saw you do
    or dreamed
    you would do
    i felt to be particularly
    in the light
    it received,
    then please try to imagine
    that i was only a fool
    to bring
    what was necessary
    to everything i hoped for (you
    and only you)
    so close
    to that part of me
    i should have set aside
    to make room
    for loving you
    more often.

  131. …publishers clearing house.
    …publishers clearing house…

    …the dimmed glowing nights have been lifted. The twisters and grapefruit hail had been avoided. Turn our attention to the hypnotized and plead for them to listen. It is calling. It being the unknown source. Knowledge and faith colliding. Big bang?….you bet brother, a big bang to be sure. Loud and spectacular. But only for the attentive and aware. Rightousness can be demonstrated over and over and it will not matter. All for nothing. And everything. Liberating freedom and it starts every moment…..publishers clearing house, keeping hope alive….the answer to our current state of confusion. The drink for our current thirst. The shot for our current illness…gives hope but gives no faith…disappointment assured. The suckers are in a never-ending line, trying to fill the empty void. Cash and cars. Chicks and rock & roll…and a sea of screens lit up the darkness…

  132. 1.33 am
    1.33 am
    11 years

    since I first came here
    Lit kicks
    the poets slicks
    magic word pavers

    So much changed in life
    no longer a mothers daughter
    or a daughters mother

    Death death death
    painful mourning

    the future hung herself from a tree
    in the backyard for all to see

    and another night of alone
    the mother sits
    for the child gone
    dead forever

    By trying desperately to live again

  133. A Pack of Cards 219.
    A Pack of Cards 219.

    The golden rule never gives change
    And gamblers only drink champagne
    Losers can’t afford it
    Don’t play poker with medicine men
    Doc Holliday’s a sore loser
    It goes with his obsession
    He’s a dentist by learning
    A gambler by profession
    An’ a renaissance assassin
    A Medici Faustian bargain
    Playing the green baize table.
    Where ten’s the changing sign
    The alchemists’ calling card
    The card of transformation
    A card of changing of beds
    And a change of friends
    They could even be enemies
    Fortune changes for the worse
    An’ losing is a winning gamble
    When hands-like
    Feet change direction
    Losing yourself is the smart play
    Sooner’s so much better than later
    In time the world loves a loser
    But gamblers hate a debtor
    I.O U’s don’t spell for
    Less than A an’ E
    They’re just vowels
    Without provenance
    Gambling cashes in on culture
    Money is the ‘lingua franca’
    Of a very deadly silent economy
    No one really talks about it,
    An’ you can’t keep your eyes off it
    But sure as hell everyone
    Listens to the silence
    Ten’s the calling
    Card of consequence
    A very suitable number
    In Fire Earth Air and Water
    They can be quite
    Soulfully pedestrian
    You never know
    What’s in the elements
    A good card to keep
    Up your sleeve
    But lose your shirt
    You lose everything
    An’ it goes without
    Staying a lot
    Not a good card
    To be found naked with
    Be careful with a nine
    In any colour
    It’s the most deserving
    In the highest
    Nines, sleeves and gambling
    Is a triple tray of troubles
    Heads have been known
    To be served on a tray of trays
    Nines can be very Trinitarian
    And quite John the Baptist
    A good card to lose in haste
    But eternal if a friend
    There’s none better.
    Eights go on forever
    The Via Dolorosa of numbers
    They are a sacred journey
    Only the compassionately beautiful
    Gamble with an eight in their hands
    Eight is a sacred mystery
    In any suit it is never cut
    And always woven
    From a seamless gambled-for cloth
    Eight never gambles in suits
    Only in garments
    Never gamble with an eight
    Unless you’re gambling with redemption.
    Hand life and soul
    Have been eternally lost
    Or found on an eight.
    Truly a gambler’s card
    And sometimes a calling card
    As every gambler knows
    A card of consequence and karma
    When it calls, keep your eyes on the dealer.
    Sure as hell, a deal’s been done
    An’ all the blue eyes are on you.
    Sevens like fives are a journey
    Good cards for travellers
    Wanderers and shape shifters
    Seven seas and five continents
    Suits those wandering souls among us
    Two solitary prime numbers
    Indivisible onto themselves
    They can be quite pedestrian
    Fives can be over confident over land
    But they shouldn’t try to be seven
    Walking on water’s a mistake
    Unless you’re an avatar
    Treading wine is better and safer
    Five and sevens are a journey
    Good cards to keep in your shoes.
    Sixes are just sixes
    An’ they don’t go with sevens
    They’re the card of reflection
    A scriptural card if ever there was one
    A card dressed in a triple mirror
    Vanity and vexation in the curves
    A card to turn, turn and turn your eyes again
    The number of the card
    Is a trinitarian consequence
    Reflected in the mirror image of ourselves
    The card has an identity problem
    Don’t knock it, you might need it.
    It’s your friend in need of friend
    An with friends like that…
    It’s just as well that any three
    From four sixes
    Is the sign of a winning hand
    In a loser’s smile
    And the best part of a full house
    A card of Jezebels, angels and mirrors
    On reflection, don’t you just love sixes.
    Five is five and let’s not talk about it
    It’s an assassins calling card
    It goes with its own territory
    A card that doesn’t take prisoners.
    Fours are strangers at the door
    Every one with a Matthew birth
    Mark in the image of John
    Looking like four seasons
    They arrive like pilgrims
    Then are gone
    To change themselves
    To be the same again
    Another season another fall
    Leaving calls a card
    For all weathers and shelter in a storm
    You are kind of pleased to see it
    But you don’t know why
    Also cards of mystery and obviousness
    And only fools an’ fours
    Can tell the difference
    It’s the ‘maybe’ card
    You never really know with fours
    The proverbial knocking at your doors
    But sure as hell they’ll never ring a bell
    A tidy card to send to acrobats
    And other kinds of well balanced people
    That’s what fours are for
    Commitments tailored to your needs
    And the occasional highly wired friend
    Don’t go out without them.
    You never know if you might need them
    Threes are trinities and Divinity’s
    Father’s Son’s Holy Ghost’s
    And more usually the cause
    Of a quick divorce
    The world moves in threes
    Sattwas Rajas and Tamas
    The triune dance of the universe
    Light, Action and Inertia
    It even grows on trees
    Every one a traveller
    Some are even Gypsies
    They can be an invitation
    Or a visitor from a distant place
    They’re the taxi cards of the pack
    Call them when you wanna go
    Somewhere they’ll arrive
    They’re the calling cards
    Of falling friends
    You’ll never be lonely on a journey
    Of five an’ sevens with a three
    They’re the crucifixion card
    Unless it suits you otherwise
    To be so amused.
    Deuces are two’s
    The mirror card
    Duality’s their basic business
    They really are a wolf card
    Always travelling in packs
    Not sufficient to be dangerous
    An’ just enough to not be lonely
    They really appreciate your company
    It suits their existence to travel together
    Their faces are places searching for aces
    Jacks in a pack never look back
    If they can possibly look sideways
    It suits their knavish tendencies
    They’re quite the well-tailored card
    Fine raiment maketh a fool attractive
    In very unfashionable circumstances
    Treachery an’ deceit on each turning face
    Sure as Clementine’s your long lost darling
    An Ophelia never got her hand in time
    A gambling Hamlet is a sight to see
    Jealousy rage and a ferocious anger
    Writ upon a countenance looking back
    Beyond the cardboard eyes of the beholder.
    Dumb broads are never dumb
    And seldom abroad
    Sometimes they can be
    A very home loving card
    Two jokers live in every pack
    One out front the other looks back
    They’re the magpies in the deck
    Less in sorrow than in joy
    They cover every missing face
    The hooded birds deserve their place
    Their reputation precedes them
    In black and white they are the night
    In colours they’re magnificent sevens
    And, they’ve really got your number
    In spades it suits their harlequin fashion
    To be a veritable grave digging charmer
    In jewels they whore the precious deck
    Two diamonds and they’re everybody’s
    The vagrant royalty rule the roaming pack
    Their world is another creature’s finery
    Gamblers are such snazzy jazzy dressers
    (If you have to lose a shirt do it in style
    Second hand clothes and second hand hands
    Aren’t so much a misfortune more an affliction
    Desperately seeking a lost occasion
    Well heeled fools engrave it on their heart
    Better be dead in your gracious threads
    Than kicking in rags of common comfort)
    They’re the card that always looks back
    The face in every hand smiling at you
    Then there’s the precisely tailored box
    The transient funeral parlour
    In a good looking box like that
    You can die and dine anywhere
    In reasonable style
    [Tailed a toss head first
    Into a losing situation]
    They never call they beckon
    And if they speak
    It’s a good idea to listen.

  134. Mandz,
    If every half felt breath
    Becomes a whole sentence
    We’re quarter way there.

    To have a one
    Who felt so much it got too raw
    Is that so different
    Than old action lines of why?

    Some choose a different way to cry, to fly.

    I was there when just a tot,
    She placed around you celestial forget me nots.

    I can’t pretend to find a yes in your loss.

    But I’m glad you’re back
    It can do no harm
    To weave yourself around old charm.

    From mother to daughter to mother be.

    My surrogate lover, my Mandz faerie.

    You have more yet to come,

    Make our Ceri proud

    You have always been earth mum x x

  135. The dynamic of the sound
    The dynamic of the sound
    Action found in between
    Got no stinking rules
    Straight from the treasure
    Mind blowing sender

  136. ..together to forever blues..
    ..together to forever blues..

    she walks the fine line, she still my sweetie pie.
    days go, they’re left by the road.
    she needs some tissues for her issues.
    dry the tears, nobody needs to know.

    ain’t it hard to hear, truth hurts my dear.
    some different love we knew long ago.
    meant what i said to you, not looking for something new.
    this life we made, this life we know.

    and we made it right, together we took flight, we made to this very night.
    when i look at you, my dreams have all come true, your green eyes are full of light.
    we’ll make it together to forever, we’ll make it alright.

    every night i sleep with you, never failed to keep me true.
    a woman in the way that you move.
    your glowing skin, keeps pulling me in.
    woman you finding your groove.

    wanna yell wanna shout, honey i got no doubt.
    you’re the one i’ll never lose.
    don’t ever think we’re on the brink.
    sometimes i just get the blues.

  137. i think about lighting up but

    i think about lighting up but don’t
    it is there still
    on the desk in front of me
    next to the scissors i have been using
    to cut errant hairs
    from the side of my head
    next to the bottle of Playboy anti-perspirant
    i bought
    on a whim
    while doing an online Tesco shop

    my brother is in the next room
    having goodbye sex with the girl
    from Japan; he smokes too much,
    buit tonight, like me, he has not smoked.

    and perhaps i ought to smoke it
    just to liven this thing up
    in which i have told you about two things
    on my desk
    about my brother

    but not really let anything out
    not really shown you anything
    beautiful. it isn’t easy

    to know how
    to end a poem,
    so i will just end this one
    by going to bed.

  138. jointed.

    two pulls
    a plane moves by outside

    i opened the window
    to let the smoke out
    i want my brother to think

    i went another day without it
    i sprayed the room even
    with Playboy anti-perspirant

    oh hell
    it is not even anti-perspirant
    it is just body spray, deoderant

    the silver head of a bunny
    on the front of the can
    and the bunny wearing a bow-tie

    and i ruin everything
    by thinking it through
    and by not thinking it through.

  139. Thinking back on The Lord
    Thinking back on The Lord Buckley and the first time I heard the NAZZ….jack would create his very own flow with little punctuation ….now this iPad does that for o say can u see….me… dot dot……action freedom feelings bleeder never a whiner yet a fine diner out on lone prairie chance to be chance to bumble bee…..thoughts while the fans whirl and the juice gets swallowed ……..

  140. Bummer there dream platio.
    Bummer there dream
    platio seer men cry
    hell yell cream bull.

  141. i’d like to be a grasshopper
    i’d like to be a grasshopper
    in my next life
    so i won’t know or understand
    war, starvation, pride

    only jump here, munch there
    and there will always be
    silence to step into
    and pray

  142. Abiding by these resolutions
    Abiding by these resolutions
    I’ll sit and wait my turn.

    Hate it’s not ink flowing
    But tap dancing
    Get in tune with your philanges, folks.
    Uttering, stuttering mess
    One gets by.
    But I get to see Sun pouring first over London sky.
    Guess I ticked the right box/boss.
    I look after and under and around the highest point of
    In western Europe.
    Still. Standing there and breathing.
    I think of no thing. And you .

  143. …the resort girls…
    …the resort girls…

    Consider me a very interested observer. Skin in the game. Years and years of beebopping and reverbbing. Just searching for the creases and crannies. Nooks’ve all been found. Somehow, someway, a turn of the corner is coming. I can’t tell you what and I can’t tell you why, but I can tell you when. Someday. Someday is when. Chunking flowers on the ground and snubbing your nose at steak. Like a bovine insult.

    The A/C got a tune up. Running like a dream, freezing the summer months. Circulation improved with regular maintenance. Heats up on the south side. Sun beats right through the huge oaks in front, heats the brick up good. We could get cooked up in here. Once again, God bless the folks who work in the air conditioning industry. Public servants of the south, appointments stacked back to back. On call always. You can, and should, control your climate. In one ear and out the other. That dude don’t listen. Ready golf I said! Cheering up and sounding off. We fought when we had to. Our duty was done. Kohrea was a mother. Colder than a deep freeze. The rightous end wars. Making peace by whatever means is needed. Elimination, unconditional surrender, or death. We’ll sort out the details over tonics and gins and wild turkey.

    Those tobacco boys shoulda come clean. It’s cool to die. Very near the truth. With dignity and peace. We know the pain is coming. Our very own crucifixion, complete with last words and see you laters. Old men want to decide, they want to instruct the less wise. But the young are deciding on their own, claiming the future for themselves. Polite and courteous, grinning slyly, the old of the future. Every generation gets a clean chance, an opportunity to proclaim. Do not go silently into that great night. Rollick around. Stumble into walls. Knock on the doors of your neighbors. Put your face up to the glass. Hopes and dreams and inspiration. Spend these hours wisely, watch the sun rise and set daily. Weather permitting. Earn your weekly wage, pay your monthly debts, two vacations a year. Ahhh, those white sands of Destin. The resort girls. Morning winds and nightly life. Count them waves, all of them that come in. Your life in the grains of sand.

  144. Counter comment @ da bar
    Counter comment @ da bar never too high sink the Bismarck raise the titanic full speed ahead likened to an illusion amidst confusion he rode to yonder sunset….take a deep breath ok it did not turn out according to the script it’s there in all it’s purple Mountains Majesty…(this machine wants to spell for me and its starting to piss me off)over and out the cow screamed beneath the super moon …….

  145. once upon
    once upon
    my waste of time
    strange I felt
    my hope, my crime

    I wander, I groan
    smashing clay household gods
    inconsolably empty
    bound by steel bundled rods

    fire once in the belly
    but no true wars to wage
    a one act redemption
    small story, small stage

    tell me finally please
    my desperate final relief
    that my father’s idols are dead
    hymns praised by hollow belief

    hapless we wonder
    did the great prankster on high
    choke on fame, vomit and tithings
    grown aloof in his sky?

    we clever cynical ones
    ironic artisans so smug
    look up from below
    sunk in pits that we dug

    for maybe forgotten in all this
    as we wallow, we strain,
    is a lead actor not author
    leads this short life’s refrain

    for what god cries for blood
    or -isms that you praise
    if the absence of mercy
    only stokes hatred’s blaze?

    we squabble, we bicker
    strutting down marbled halls
    but ending we’re all leavened
    by that final curtain call

    leaving nothing behind
    chin up and eyes forward
    reach for the bright heavens
    and that final reward

    can it be halos and harpstrings
    or virgins unbounded
    or maybe just ending
    with shining trumpets unsounded?

    to ask for meaning means nothing
    if the ending’s the same
    but authentic hearts will live truer
    in this heartbreaking game

    so in ending I wandered
    down a fog shrouded road
    unsure of the ending
    just follow paths as they flowed…

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What We're Up To ...

Litkicks will turn 30 years old in the summer of 2024! We can’t believe it ourselves. We don’t run as many blog posts about books and writers as we used to, but founder Marc Eliot Stein aka Levi Asher is busy running two podcasts. Please check out our latest work!