Tuesday, June 7, 2011

sunday school fragment

The sundayschool felt-board
lives within us:
adam and eve naked
close to each other
but rather androgynous.
Oh aint they got fun.


Are poems that don't make sense in and of themselves making any sense of the world? My intuition is yes - maybe. What do you think? Is there a possibility for confusion to result in non-confusion? Or at least some comfort in it?

Monday, June 6, 2011


Out of spiced spiked cider and
spliced veins
we got chagrin, we got

we got worn out
brown couch
and 18 rainbow-covered pandas
for slept there and slept there,
slept there.

Faith's public swimming pool exfoliates
with the skin
of flacid emigrants--
at least it's closed on weekends.
Lay your sleepy head dear
here and here and here. 

Thursday, June 2, 2011

mashed potato clouds

Clouds are piling up in the west,
huge mashed-potato trainwreck pileups,
piling up and greying faster than my father.

Thunderheading east
over Olympics tall, cold and wet,
mucking up all our sunshine

raining grey gravy from the sky.
Measure out thy worst, O great potato peeler!
I fear ye not.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

not-sonnet of jimminy cockroach

Crawling in my walls the cockroaches go
hithering thither, discussing the weather
as we all do: hello Jimminy Cockroach,
eaten the poison, or simply just shallow

in all your hopes: I will not touch the stuff
in the trap, mr mouse: am I, nothing yellow
for me, not for me. Mr. Roach, God is, how does 
he doing? Does he stimulate your marrow?

Tomorrow I will arise and fry eggs.
Throw strips of bacon at the corner where meets my
pillow walls. You may fight the open mouths of ants
and other cut creatures with mandibles,

with Mr Roach, for the chewable death,
Mr Roach, always, with his ever open mouth.