Originally posted March 9th, 2014
Stubbornness wants to be a virtue, aspiring to be thought of
as a mark
of good character, nearly related (as if by marriage) to the better
qualities Determination and
Stick-to-itiveness. Stubbornness, however, is not Determination nor even Stick-to-itiveness.
Stubbornness is an affront to Nature, an insult to Evolution,
an honest admission of stupidity. I do declare to the world:
“I will not
progress! I will not make
progress!
I shall stay stuck where I am.”
Why do you fear change? Why does your dog have mange? Why were you not coached by
Red Grange? Why can you not never will not ever?
Because. Or put slightly differently, because.
And, also, I am older than you are.
For now.
Originally posted February 9th, 2014
in and out together
breathe
what we lovers want
more than
boisterous coitus drowning in moistness
although that’s quite perfect
as far as perfection goes
we can go deeper
inside the loneliness
where we breathe
the solitude of one
Originally posted February 1st, 2014
the blight of power lines
graphing the sky with staves
and you’re the notes.
La-la-la…and a little higher
Laah!
Yah, hah, how you make me la-la-la,
How you make me laugh
With something like childlike, childish, altogether foolish
Joy joy. Oh, joy. That kind.
Thank you, I’ll say it directly. Thank you! I say thank you, plainly.
In a language that every living thing can understand,
and maybe the dead ones, too. The universal being universal.
Thank you, birds. For everything, the parts you can’t understand and the parts I don’t understand and
The parts that everyone understands.
Thank you for all that. And thank you for the smaller mercies, the ones I’m certain
You haven’t planned, unless, in fact, it’s true
that in your avian breast is where
God dwells.
Thank you, God. I’m . . . → Read More: Poem: Thank You to the Birds
Originally posted January 26th, 2014
would be to presume that the threshold of excellence you’ve artificially set –
what does and doesn’t qualify for literature art excellent worthiness –
earned along the way the organic certification, the one we all hope
we’re worth. In fact, my dear, my darling, my [insert pet name here],
the oracles have spoken and they say you’re flimfloozled.
And also mildly embruvulated!
Is it only Hollywood People who do yoga to relieve their suffering and pain,
and to exercise in stretchy pants?
Is it only bitter pedants who haven’t yet learned “show, don’t tell”
works wonderfully when delivering admonitory rants?
burrowing through the seams, into the revelation spot,
ensconcing yourself there, building a tent, settling in for the long
long night of . . . → Read More: Poem: Yoga Lesson
Originally posted January 19th, 2014
You look like. Or how You feel. Or windy conjectural explanations of what
You think. You know all that.
What You want is to hear what happened. How You got here, how
You arrived at this particular moment in the space we call
wherever You are.
The plot.
You were asleep when they came and took You from your bed, where every night
and some days
You dream yourself away, transporting the entire circus to other planes. Some call it
“escaping,” submitting to a power whose cheerful benevolence must be assumed,
not groomed. Nonsense skitter-scatters here and there, projecting upon the private screen that only
a lady eating strudel
longs calmly to canoodle
with her perspicacious poodle.
Then . . . → Read More: Poem: The Story of You
Originally posted December 29th, 2013
And although I don’t share your candid misanthropy
I understand and I am sorry.
Father who left us all too soon
I understand and I am sorry.
Our species, the one you claimed to despise, having peered inside yourself and
all around the carousel, having seen dazzling cruelties
reckless greediness
neediness
rapaciousness
worse than rodents – the worst we’re capable of inflicting on ourselves and
those we claim to adore
like they were our firstborn son, the one that will always be first, the first in the family
to go to college
and see the Loire Valley
and lose a wife.
Father who left us all too soon
I understand and I am sorry.
This morning, walking into the sunrise, something you liked to do –
now I like to do, yippee! hurrah! yahoo!
to be . . . → Read More: Poem: Scandal
Originally posted November 17th, 2013
passing through our galaxy
on and around and maybe inside
the same sacred molecules breathed by
Gandhi. And Jimi.
Everyone. All breathing the same breath, born of the same ecstatic release.
They tell you where to gaze
and why to eat
and what to care
and who to how the when. But lonely is the day, my friend,
that comes not to a proper end;
trickling, instead, to the edges, like a stain, a creeper. Wine trapped in paper.
A celebrant. If you will
just follow me, let me lead you to the place or places you’re not sure enough to know.
So, repeat after she, delete past her knee, cancel the porkpies and make some fresh ghee.
You can, you know. It has been permitted and authorized by . . . → Read More: Poem: Connecting to the Higher Vibe
Originally posted October 20th, 2013
of shamelessness. Jerry Brown is not embarrassed to be the Prison Industry’s boy in Sacramento, and so
we should not be embarrassed to have elected him to lead us and protect us
from druggies, who Brown prefers to leave behind bars, the better to improve the bottom line
of his patrons in the Incarceration Business.
We learned this week that slavery still flourishes in India. The old-fashioned kind
of slavery, in which children are sold like cattle, sacred cows who labor with opposable thumbs. This kind of thing
happens, you know, so we should not be embarrassed to organize our life around acquiring and consuming
goods and services
brought to us by nicely remunerated slave drivers.
. . . → Read More: Poem: News from the Home Front
Originally posted September 8th, 2013
You’re losing private battles between foes called Dark and Light.
A poker face is good for gambling, good for fooling foes,
but tabula rasa is a start for art, not how friendship grows.
Unpinch the nose, remove the sneer, put pleasure where there’s pain,
and see how easy life becomes when there is no strain,
no stress, no angst, no effort to be made
to be the best, to win the race, to earn the highest grade.
Turning frowns upside down seems childish at best.
So, stern and somber grown-ups may try a simple test:
When next you feel the urge to shroud your soul with inexpressive guile
try, instead, to give a grateful world your empathetic smile.
Originally posted June 23rd, 2013
a white lady in Florida.
The former NFL star best known for a peculiar and unknowable fetish
with his own number
had slapped his attorney on the ass
in court,
just as he had slapped countless male asses before
in end zones and sideline huddles.
You don’t do that kind of thing in Broward County,
especially if you’re a nigger boy with too much swagger and sex appeal and loads of cool
like you never had to try to be admired, ever, because it just happened naturally,
like a Brady spiral. It happened effortlessly
whether or not you had hair or a diamond stud earring gleaming a constant reminder
to white ladies
that nothing can take the shine off of this here Negro, the one that got 90 days in jail
. . . → Read More: Poem: Ochocinco
Thought Of The Week Poem: Respect Your Elders Orginally posted on March 09, 2014
A NEW POEM EVERY DAY DURING THE 2014 MK.com SPRINGTIME POETRY FESTIVAL, MARCH 9-15!
Stubbornness wants to be a virtue, aspiring to be thought of
as a mark
of good character, nearly related (as if by marriage) to the better
qualities Determination and
Stick-to-itiveness. Stubbornness, however, is not Determination nor even Stick-to-itiveness.
Stubbornness is an affront to Nature, an insult to Evolution,
an honest admission of stupidity. I do declare to the world:
“I…
Read More-->
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Poem: Breathe With Me Breathe with me
in and out together
breathe
what we lovers want
more than
boisterous coitus drowning in moistness
although that’s quite perfect
as far as perfection goes
we can go deeper
inside the loneliness
where we breathe
the solitude of one
Poem: Thank You to the Birds Perched on a wire, a feathered ornament prettifying
the blight of power lines
graphing the sky with staves
and you’re the notes.
La-la-la…and a little higher
Laah!
Yah, hah, how you make me la-la-la,
How you make me laugh
With something like childlike, childish, altogether foolish
Joy joy. Oh, joy….
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