Poems Written Today

               

I was slubagub in the tub writing Poesy or summat...grey days lend themselves to it...


     Rating You

Once, you drowned me.
Then I drowned you.
We were off to a rib-tickling start.
Forgiveness is a horrible collective, you know.
They tell you how to dress, what to eat.
And you only wanted to know how to feel.
I have a resin sculpture of a giraffe dressed-up
as a Victorian lady, carrying a lavendar parasol.
Her elaborate hat is tricked-out with ostrich feathers.
This reminds me of you in The Unforgiven.
You were the unbilled tumbling tumbleweed
Clint Eastwood kicked from his feet
while directing American Poetry. American Poetry.
I give it two and a half stars.





     You Replaced My Head with an Owl's

But I forgive you.
Forgiveness has a small red bulb
at the base which usually shatters eventually.
The way people "check in" at graveyards
come winter, how wind taunts the saddest motels.
I used to hide there, I said, and pointed.
Children create imaginary coupons at Christmas
and deliver themselves into indentured servitude.
Oh, I'm alright with heaven.
I just imagine God says "Badda Bing" a lot.
Takes the pressure off my fuckin' beak and talons.






     One Word at a Time

There is a fatal xerox charm of belonging
to a sky that is snowing over a poetic metropolis.
THE CHARM OF BELONGING is an impressive building
designed by an architect buried underneath.
Nature shits on grammar, but is a sort of grammar.
I am not trying to be "difficult."
I will describe what I see in monosyllables.
Henceforth, I will say "from now on."
And for all questions relating to Martin Heidegger
I will simply say, "Who moved my cheese?"





     Kindness, An Aberration


Kindness, Chocolate Bunny, I miss you.
I melted you for the fondue pot of Reason
or some other pointlessly capitalized thing.
Kindness, come back and stroke the hair
growing on my werewolf back.
I am close to the knives.
Villagers gather in the blog square.
The mortal cartoons of religion sniff my crotch.
Kindness, do not forget
how I held your hand
at the bus station, nor the compacts
we made when I was your conjoined C.P.A.




     Robotic Poetics


There is no useful robotic poetics
without the maternal instinct.
John Cage, put down that bird's nest,
do you even know what you're doing?
I can't get angry. I can't feel sorry.
This calls for a new sort of pastoral.
A new sort of superhero. Cyber-shepherds.
Most of the poets I see spend their time
designing the costumes.
Or Suffer the Children manifestos.
Bright colors. Tight fit.
The manifesto and the costume.
They put it on around forty.
They titillate us, but not for the reasons
they think. I enjoy it most
when they simulate flying.

The way they hold their arms
in front of them and wait.



     BABAR, THE COLONIALIST


Oh, I can't even bear to look at you.
I know the horrible truth.
Don't recite Reverdy or talk about Satie.
STOP! JUST STOP!
Let's not pretend.
End it with some dignity.
I don't have to stick around
to guess Eminem at fifty.





     Postcard from the Edge


I am writing this poem in outer space.
People only visit me accidentally.
Some might call it exile, but that's lame.
One gets used to the lack of gravity.
Some supplement with avoirdupois. I don't.
I'm not in orbit around you or you or you or you.
I'll admire your elaborate solar systems from a distance.
My favorite things are sleep, poems and eclipse.
My cat and I smile at each other
when a particularly large planet casts us in shadow.
We give your big-bellied spheres goofy names that make fun
of your planetary features, your obvious deformations.
Your prodigious wobble, unsensed.
But I won't reveal those names here.
Outer space is the perfect place for the peanut gallery.

And only the peanut gallery is immortal.