saturn devouring his dinner: a poem

our good thanks to the best expert in electrical toil controls
(i'm his pal)
and our thanks to jesus, who is god, and the holy spirit,
who is also god
(no foolin')

i'm his pal

muck: a poem

red brick on farmland
red brick in landscape
big building, falling down
big building, pumping out

the storied stairs of suburbia
toilets bubbling over, and

red brick stairway
red brick in everything anyway
and

pond of boiling muck, pumping out
jar of boiled muck, falling down
and

splattering staircase,
splattering stairway,
splattering red brick

and

puke devil: a poem

cool stuff, a good stuff, a brief stuff
flange change and cash exchange
a good thing, a bad thing, a fright thing
frumptious glens and horned fangs
good gangs and bad gangs
plank hams and slam trangs
good time, good time, one-one two
good time, bad time, how 'bout you?

tandoori cyclops: a poem

it's free, it's a freebie,
it's on the house,
take it. it's yours.

do what you want with it.
take it. use it. do it. take it.
but don't do that one thing,
the one the other guy was doing;
don't do that. that's not allowed.

be safe, be well, be happy,
but be aware. most of important of all
is that you be aware. so be aware.
to be aware is more important than
to be safe, and far more important than
to be interesting.

it's a riddle, it's a maze, it's a puzzle.
put it together, and a picture is your reward.
just a picture.

some bullshit about 'otherness': a poem

I.

why are there so many
drawings of dead astronauts
and what does this say
about our anxieties today?

tell me, in your own words,
two pages, double-spaced,
and have it on my desk
by friday.

II.

imagine, if you please,
and if i may be bold,
dolphin corpses floating
on a river of gold,
and the gold turns into honey,
and ten villages are fed,
and the universe remained
inside a single human head.

three stanzas of five lines: a poem

the state of poetry:
unknown to me,
unknown to thee.
i haven't read another poem since
two thousand three.

how do they break them up now?
do they attempt to rhyme?

yes, i must learn this somehow,

but just don't have the

inclination.

old ships, no longer any use, are broken up in port.
poems are thoughts broken up, repurposed: chants, of a sort?
where every emphasis must justify itself in court?
weak metaphor and tortured rhyme, enough to make you snort.
but sometimes that's okay, because you're drunk.

ground slugs: a poem

slugs stay on the ground where the boots are
slow, brown, or goldfish gold, but slow
salt 'em, salt 'em, i don't care
crawling, walking, i don't care
slithering, slow
way down low
i don't care
about the slugs
they should stay on the ground where the boots are

what i will tell my children when i am old: a poem

when i am old
i will tell my children tragic beanstalk tales
of great giants
killed by evil men

i will tell them
the earth is made of cheese
the moon is made of dirt
and that's why no one goes there anymore

i will tell them
up is down
and black is white
because it is

fair: a poem

make lemons into lemonade
make an apple into an orange

god is fair, and life is fair
your tongue won't rot off
'til you can grow a new one

short bio: a poem

short bio?
freethinker
asker of difficult questions
not intellectually satisfied with the
paltry fruits of so-called american culture

they say life is miserable
but not for me

i drive a green car
and i'm in law school
i'm married, for some reason,
and i accidentally had children
some day, i'm going to eat my hands