Shamrock

There once was a lady called Leidy
Whose room you could hardly call tidy,
she wanted to sleep
So Her man did not peep,
But except for "I love you; good nighty."


The once was a doctor called "Sanja"
The cheapest of dealers who conned ya,
His qualifications
Were hardly for patients,
His medical love was for Gonja.

There was an old surfer called Smith
Who didn't care who he surfed with,
On many adventures,
He'd rip out his dentures
And dive in headfirst off the cliff.

A little man lives in my ear
He tells me there's nothing to fear
his past occupation
Was dark in location,
He used to live inside my rear.

Hey kids, you should listen in school,
Cuz poetry is super cool,
It let's you write words
That some might call absurd,
A crashendo of "Fart!" "Poop!" and "Drool!"

Birthday

There once was a man from Scotland,
Who had run just as fast as he'd ran
For years he had fought them
And soon he forgotten,
Those years that had made him a man.

There once was a girl for the South,
Whose twang rang in loud from her mouth,
Being sworn into court,
Gave his honor a thwart,
When she mistakenly called it the "ouwth."

There once was a fella named Ron,
Who could never keep his clothing on,
When he got in his car
The police were not far
Because soon even his socks would be gone.

There once was a boy named sue,
Who came down with a terrible flu,
Once his fever had broken,
his voice had stopped croakin,
His baritone made us anew.

We once had an uncle called Sam,
Who was born such an innocent man,
With time he got greedy
He stole from the needy
And still we don't care, not a damn.

At night when my parents are talking
I listen with silence of stockings
Hung over the wreath
With the fire beneath
Wait for Santa, his footsteps come knocking.

When everyone knows you're an ass
Is it easy to forget your past?
To think without scheming,
To sleep without dreaming,
Cuz soon you'll be nothing but grass.

There once was a man named jason
Who took too much effort to pun
With limericks, he struggled
Some ugly, some muddled
Then happily found he was done.

Dallas

A spider
The size
Of the soft-
Ness behind
Your ear.

Flight 1017

Clearly, the flight
From somewhere
To here, this bathroom
Had a meal with a
Side of asparagus.

Tell The Truth

Wasted and
Unreliable

An anthem
for the
broken
bored
slack-jawed
open-mouthed
intentional
blinkers

the colorado
river water
that makes
its way to
my mouth
tastes of
metal disease
that hints
of cancer and
obese dreams

Paul Ruben's
Ladies of the
sky or Pee-wee's
Ladies of the
night, each eats
a Turkish delight
treat and then fly
free into the stars
second to the right.

truth is what I'm
after, squriming
in my hands like
a frog from the street
that I stop

turn off the car and
get out to grab his
green grimy feet and
the headlights make
that color like an
alabaster coat or
abalone insides,

in the car,
he tickles my
hand and I squeeze
just right, tight
enough so he won't
be lost and almost
almost undone,

but I can't
look him right
in the eye; I've gotta
watch the road and then
I realize I've held him
so tight and close that
he has almost almost
died, so I pull over
sharply and set
the truth free right
where he's meant to
go, the sewer with
the everglades poking
free

and there, I don't worry
about the highway of cars
or the streetlight over
the underpass, no

No, just the reserved
and thoughtful hops of
truth making his way
home.

Robbing a Bank

Dear FBI,
Don't be alarmed
this is just a
poem, a harmless
work of art that
by no way, nor
with these
means can
or will
pose a
threat
to you.

I can promise,
this young
poet has
nothing but
good things
to say about
the Man and
his implicit
role in keep-
ing us and US
safe/secure
calm/stupid
innocent/
ignorant

In fact, this
poem, which
may or may
not have
appeared via
Search Engine
or super computer
(whatever mode
you fellows use)
has nothing to do
with you or robbing
a bank for that matter.

It's merely a clear-eyed
reflection on the poet,
his youth and his regret.
Feel free to email me
with questions.

New Denim

a tag tucked inside
the pocket
tells the wearer

to wash it; first,
turning
the legs inside out

outside in and shake
it all
about, do the cold

rinse with no soap
watch it
all around - you yell

about how spin-dryers
weren't made
to be used that way.

Brick

Albeit for me to dismiss
Bad and unattended prose
Cut short like a weed or
Daffodil growing between
Each crack in the bricks
Forgotten and unturned a
Growth known only by its
Heights and limited with
Intuitive natural graces
Just placed in a place's
Kitchen cabinet corner a
Lost forgotten nook that
My mind clearly excluded
On the premise that it's
Perfectly dreadful prose
Quite queerly positioned
Really don't matter here

-Please publish in Couri
er new so that the lines
on either side match-up.

The Unhappy and Lonesome Solitude in Knowing The Discoveries And Progress of Science Will Be Destroyed When No One Is Here To Learn Them

Youth, gone
POOF!

Boulevard

(planting seeds of inadequacy)

for lease.
for sale.
80% off
final closeout.
LensCrafters
FedEx
JR Liquor
Trader Joes
Ralphs
Post Office
Oil-Can Henrys
NaturalWay Foods
Papa Johns
(construction)
-Demolition-
(construction)

Pretentious

In Santa Monica,
near the Promenade,
on our way back from
lunch

I read you a poem
I wrote, from my phone,
in the stairwell of the

parking structure. The
poem's called "Cheating"
and you kindly call it

"Wank-Fest"
"Keats Rip-off"
"Pretentious Bullshit"

Contentment

Pulling up to the
Stoplight
At lunchtime

I turn off the car,
Put her in park.
Red sun, red light.

Windows rolled down,
Hear that breeze -
Somehow all the way

From the sea,
It came here at lunch
To see me.

Cheating

I have Found a new
Lover, and she's just
Down the street, I am over
The hill, but she's still on her feet

She is married and young
over twenty and still,
I wait and I watch her
From over the hill,

Young mistress, do you
Know what sOng is in spring?
Have you heard hollow hollers
The wives were moaning?

Their a fake, a facade from age,
Broken cold heat,
All the night running black
On the white of the sheet,

You're so sweet and so young,
Hardly Innocent still, asleep
There you wait
Against spring's seething will

And I see and I watch
And I wait sitting neat,
One foot crossed on the knee
Shoulders square to my seat,

With my eyes holding closed
And my hand holds defeat,
I pray god is not watching
Our lust and retreat,

So Repeat all these words
As I say them aloud,
"For this spring, it has sprung
Like a rain with no cloud;

The sun's willow's undone
And his nature is proud,"
But your husband, our god
Is heavy handed, heavy-browed

Pray to him, my sweet lady,
If forgiveness you seek,
He will still let me see
Behind bars, lashed and weak,

For if sin is your virtue
And you can't lay there still,
My chained heat will be waiting
Just over the hill.

Dead Writers

To All The Dead Writers,
whom I have never read
I would like someday
to stand in your steps

I would like to be forgotten
as soon as I've been dead
and my words to live a little
longer still, as the figdet

dancing in wake-less dreams,
in those living dreams;
my fellow voiceless writers
come march in my parade

for you have had no cake
though it's been baked
by your hand; man and woman
let us eat our cake

even if I have yet to make
it or it will never be made,
I will serve it first with
tea, lemonade and

hopefully as you
take a bite, the reward
for your trade will
arrive just as sweet.

El Cielo

that Japanese box-square
lantern that sits cornered
on your wooden desk,

it's waiting for
a tea-light candle
to glow-up its pastel

colors, and brush them
against the white walls
like haunting winter

ripples showing snow-
drift reflections
of the northern lights

down on unpainted hills,
on the frozen blown dusted
glacier hills, mirroring

the pastel colors in the sky;
of a tea light lit
atop your craft-desk, burning.

Steam

I'm afraid to capture
in this volcanic ash
the emotion known as
anger

I'm afraid it's like
keeping cancer in
a glass vile in the lab
and knowing it can crack

can crack right open onto
the little lab rat readers
breeding hate and insecurity
but damnit, I'm mad

And if you're ready to listen
I'm sure as shit ready to talk,
see I've got this problem
of feeling prisoner in my room

my body, my mind and it seems
that escape may come with white
sheet down the side of the building
and the guarddogs and bayonets

wait at bay while children in
local parks play pattycake and
I will dance in the rain of
non-existence, once escaped.

Sorbet

Hotwater smoking
from the tap,
running down my spoon;

we smear the wet spoon
in the handtowel
still keep it hot, now

rest it atop the
peach sorbet and
let the heat do the work

oh, that pressure of
a sticky sweet spoon
rocking down into the

robust fruit and cream
in its icy paper carton,
lick your lips for me.

Clean, Offensive Questions

Sitting in my office
at school the other
day, I got into a playful
debate with my fellow teacher

and this question arrived:
"Why is there an English Dept?"
The question seems to
hurt to answer, like some

free version of prostitution.
Why should what we do exist?
simple, honest, above-the-belt,
like a match to kindling;

and my answer, the answer in
that moment, woke me up
in a sweat last night;
Can studying literature

stand up on its own in
our age of the glittering
screen, or are we buggy-
whipping buffaloes?

How do we respond?

National Parks

Are we allowed to
recount our lives
through the lens of others?

Can we use other's puppets
to tell our own story,
the shells on the shore

taken like stones and
skipped across the sea's
surface?

Can Ken Burns bring
me something I can't
achieve alone?

Has he done something
so special with images
that we must give up?

or am I a joke for even
mentioning him; no longer
viewed by critic's eyes

"He's just that kid
who watches a lot of tv
and has nothing else to say."

Well, I dare you to find
a world more neatly wrapped
than his National Parks.

Given

I found Given
waiting for the bus
on his way to work

I took the 429 bus
past riverside to
my grandmother's after school

and Given, since dropping out,
had started waiting tables at
the IHOP on radford.

It was clear that he hadn't
been getting much sleep, what
with his baggy eyes and large pupils

he kind of swayed as the bus went
by and stopped to pick us both up,
all of us up.

Though the bus had many open seats,
I sat next to Given because he
still had something, like a

roman ruin with only its columns
still standing; plaining seeing
his grace and power with no roof.

He didn't notice when I picked
his pocket or went through his
backpack, he just stared out the

window. His drivers licence said
"Given Name" and them his dorm
number and address. brown eyes,

brown hair, 6'0 165 pounds. I
must have stared for a while
because he asked me why I had it

"Why the fuck do you have wallet!"
I had never been caught before,
I was too good, but why Given Name

Well it's not like there's anything
to find in here anyways; Fuck that,
give it back. If you weren't a girl

I would beat the tar out of you.
I know I could smell good and
that my clothes were black,

but tar? Tar? I've been beat
before, but I'm no tar-baby.
As soon as I knew it,

I had my knife out and
the bus was puled over
and both Given and I

were off and yelling