Tom Miller Poems - 1997
alive and dirty
yesterday at the dumpster
behind the minute market
i was throwing out the trash
when i saw something move
maybe it was a man or
maybe it was the garbage
come to life
watch out where you’re throwing
that shit
whatever it was said,
I’m trying to live in here
church of the living asshole
some people are not happy being depressed
they have to bring you down with them
some people are bores
they must bore you and call you boring
to feel justified in their cause
some people are just assholes
if you are not an asshole
they will not be satisfied until you are
church of the living asshole
always recruiting, always accepting donations
believe in something
if not god
believe in water
running cool over tar stained feet
cleansing
if not hope
believe in the sun
caressing the skin as no lover can
warming
if not yourself
believe in me
that i will hold you closely
comforting
until something better comes along
brain
my little mind
can control
my big mind
my big mind
can control
my little mind
i can suck my own dick
cindy the ball buster
in elementary school
a girl named cindy
learned how to kick
the boys in the balls
of all the places
a girl could kick
that particular target seemed to her
to produce the most profound effect
boys doubled over
clutching themselves
eyes wide mouths agape
gasping for air
and the more she kicked the boys
the more she liked it
a vicious circle
no talk-- just kicking
walked right up when you least expected
and kicked you in the balls
later in life she learned to
produce the same effect
without kicking
cocoon
i am
a cocoon
fly from me
fresh from change
your new wings
open to the wind
leave me
empty
dream #3
a tornado
driving down main street
chasing me
into the tall building
from which i can see
it coming, sucking up
street life, spitting
out dust, it seems to
know me.
the fear
so real, maybe
there is some truth in here
chasing me
the tall building
from which i see it coming
coming for me
closer
and
a wall of gray matter takes me up
flying
flat death cold fingers
and bone -- i wake into
the brightness of sun
through blinds blinding
dry
my pen ran dry
as i was writing
my love poem
like my pen
my love has run dry
like my poem
it was my best
ending shortly
after it began
guess i need
a new pen
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
she would smell like perfume
instead of dog shit
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
she would piss on the trees
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
her mouth would be cleaner than mine
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
she would sniff your butt
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
you could put peanut butter on your dick
and let her lick it off
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
she would have no acting skills
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
she would be lazy and lie around all day
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
she would be sick all the time
hey, wait a minute
my dog is elizabeth taylor!
fifty shots of bourbon and a whiskey back
in his eleventh hour
he had won the game
wheel of misfortune in a glass
and she all but disappeared
down the murky depths
of hard wet stupor
for in his dull state
of candor and nausea
mixed like a bourbon and coke
with a twist of lime
stirred to perfection
cold as ice
he vomits his life
and her with it
one step shy of the shitter
fish lady
her face was etched with lines
leathery from the sun
pocked with acne scars
and specked with freckles
she decided
to do something about it
she had a chemical peel
and that freshened her up
but more was required
a nip and tuck
resolved the lines
but what about the flab?
in another operation her sag was
pinned back behind her ears
she looked twenty years younger
next she had the fat
sucked out of her necks
now she had only one neck
goodbye frog jokes
she had permanent eye liner applied
collagen injected into her lips
and that night at the bar
everyone wondered how
the old fish could breathe
flea in my urethra
in my urethra
so goes the flea
flea in my urethra
one two three
wanna go wee
but it hurts when i pee
flea in my urethra
flea flea flea
gotta get a pin and
pick it out of me
flea in my urethra
you are free
untitled
i have this dream where
a bee hive lands on my
head and i am surrounded
by stinging and buzzing
sticky with honey
i run into the tree
the hive breaks apart
attracting a bear
who chews my swollen
head until the pain ends
i owe my integrity money
i have tried
to make something of myself
never at my own expense
i take the long way
downtown to avoid creditors
the travel shop, the coffee shop,
the frame shop, all in the same mall
i owe them all money
and my friends, i owe them too
for they have given me their trust
and i have rewarded them
with failure
it's gotten so bad
even my integrity
won't speak to me
until i pay it back
outbound breezes
orchestra
waves pound shore
carry salt
fresh fragrance
across
outbound breezes
dancing mother
birth
sea tide
moving
in time
heartbeat
breath of living things
behind restless
powerful dark expanse
surf beneath storm
of cloud gray electric
poetry girl put into submission
i told her
no specifications of length
but poems of less than 40 lines
had a better chance with me
she was a talker
i told her i do not comment
on rejections
she rhymed
no greeting card verse
no simultaneous submission
she was predictable, abstract, and cliche-ridden
i can not use you
i said
i am literature, she roared
hear me rant
i sent her back
pretentious poetre
I
toy
with form and content
so ivy league
and contemporary am I
me
a torn soul
looming over my
cup of black abyss coffee
and soul sucking cigarette
my
whiskey by my side
cliche cast to the wind
suffer the glory
of my great writing
you
pious monkey
the greatest poem in the world
one day
i will write
the great poem
my master work
not today
the new guy
in our writer's group
we critique poetry
so the poet can
improve the poem
for this to happen
the poet must suspend
his ego and prepare
to be ripped to shreds
the reward is that the poems
may become better and
the poet may become a
better writer as well as a
better critical thinker.
enter the new guy.
he has decided his work
is exceptional, like he's
going to come in and
allow us the privilege of
his skill and knowledge
he reads his first poem.
i look at jim, and he looks
back, we both look at ron,
and then the three of us
look at jen. there is
going to be trouble.
i would strike the poem, jim offers.
it doesn't ring true. in fact, it doesn't ring.
jen chimes in, economy. too wordy.
your words cheapen the poem.
i don't get it, says tom.
am i supposed to get it?
ron adds, you have a number of inaccuracies,
misspellings, and misuses of grammar.
jim reiterates, strike the poem.
the new guy seems offended,
as if, how dare they. that's the last time
i bring perfect work to a criticism group.
he never came back.
his other poems must have stunk.
the taste
of all the memories--
she most fondly
reflected on the
quiet summer days
when mother picked
berries from bushes
and placed them in her
wicker basket to use
for jams and jellies
she would follow
close enough to
snatch one or two
and put them in her
mouth, tasting the
sweetness of a
naturally pure thing
the only pure thing
she ever had in her mouth
of all the memories
by the barn
uncle dan leering
what beautiful have you left
the wet sick taste of rotting fruit
gray brown grass once green
sky field of haze burnt umber
hot dusty riverbed
memory of living things held in stone
shadow silhouettes where people once stood
now in her eyes
trust given to tears
what beautiful have you left
when winds no longer whisper
through woods
when sunlight illuminates no color
or warmth
when
alone
we wander
zen swingset
several children
went out to the park to play
but the swing set had
the seats and chains removed
for safety concerns
so the children sat
beneath the A-frame
in the lotus position
and contemplated swinging
until they got bored
and went home
alive and dirty
yesterday at the dumpster
behind the minute market
i was throwing out the trash
when i saw something move
maybe it was a man or
maybe it was the garbage
come to life
watch out where you’re throwing
that shit
whatever it was said,
I’m trying to live in here
church of the living asshole
some people are not happy being depressed
they have to bring you down with them
some people are bores
they must bore you and call you boring
to feel justified in their cause
some people are just assholes
if you are not an asshole
they will not be satisfied until you are
church of the living asshole
always recruiting, always accepting donations
believe in something
if not god
believe in water
running cool over tar stained feet
cleansing
if not hope
believe in the sun
caressing the skin as no lover can
warming
if not yourself
believe in me
that i will hold you closely
comforting
until something better comes along
brain
my little mind
can control
my big mind
my big mind
can control
my little mind
i can suck my own dick
cindy the ball buster
in elementary school
a girl named cindy
learned how to kick
the boys in the balls
of all the places
a girl could kick
that particular target seemed to her
to produce the most profound effect
boys doubled over
clutching themselves
eyes wide mouths agape
gasping for air
and the more she kicked the boys
the more she liked it
a vicious circle
no talk-- just kicking
walked right up when you least expected
and kicked you in the balls
later in life she learned to
produce the same effect
without kicking
cocoon
i am
a cocoon
fly from me
fresh from change
your new wings
open to the wind
leave me
empty
dream #3
a tornado
driving down main street
chasing me
into the tall building
from which i can see
it coming, sucking up
street life, spitting
out dust, it seems to
know me.
the fear
so real, maybe
there is some truth in here
chasing me
the tall building
from which i see it coming
coming for me
closer
and
a wall of gray matter takes me up
flying
flat death cold fingers
and bone -- i wake into
the brightness of sun
through blinds blinding
dry
my pen ran dry
as i was writing
my love poem
like my pen
my love has run dry
like my poem
it was my best
ending shortly
after it began
guess i need
a new pen
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
she would smell like perfume
instead of dog shit
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
she would piss on the trees
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
her mouth would be cleaner than mine
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
she would sniff your butt
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
you could put peanut butter on your dick
and let her lick it off
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
she would have no acting skills
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
she would be lazy and lie around all day
if my dog was elizabeth taylor
she would be sick all the time
hey, wait a minute
my dog is elizabeth taylor!
fifty shots of bourbon and a whiskey back
in his eleventh hour
he had won the game
wheel of misfortune in a glass
and she all but disappeared
down the murky depths
of hard wet stupor
for in his dull state
of candor and nausea
mixed like a bourbon and coke
with a twist of lime
stirred to perfection
cold as ice
he vomits his life
and her with it
one step shy of the shitter
fish lady
her face was etched with lines
leathery from the sun
pocked with acne scars
and specked with freckles
she decided
to do something about it
she had a chemical peel
and that freshened her up
but more was required
a nip and tuck
resolved the lines
but what about the flab?
in another operation her sag was
pinned back behind her ears
she looked twenty years younger
next she had the fat
sucked out of her necks
now she had only one neck
goodbye frog jokes
she had permanent eye liner applied
collagen injected into her lips
and that night at the bar
everyone wondered how
the old fish could breathe
flea in my urethra
in my urethra
so goes the flea
flea in my urethra
one two three
wanna go wee
but it hurts when i pee
flea in my urethra
flea flea flea
gotta get a pin and
pick it out of me
flea in my urethra
you are free
untitled
i have this dream where
a bee hive lands on my
head and i am surrounded
by stinging and buzzing
sticky with honey
i run into the tree
the hive breaks apart
attracting a bear
who chews my swollen
head until the pain ends
i owe my integrity money
i have tried
to make something of myself
never at my own expense
i take the long way
downtown to avoid creditors
the travel shop, the coffee shop,
the frame shop, all in the same mall
i owe them all money
and my friends, i owe them too
for they have given me their trust
and i have rewarded them
with failure
it's gotten so bad
even my integrity
won't speak to me
until i pay it back
outbound breezes
orchestra
waves pound shore
carry salt
fresh fragrance
across
outbound breezes
dancing mother
birth
sea tide
moving
in time
heartbeat
breath of living things
behind restless
powerful dark expanse
surf beneath storm
of cloud gray electric
poetry girl put into submission
i told her
no specifications of length
but poems of less than 40 lines
had a better chance with me
she was a talker
i told her i do not comment
on rejections
she rhymed
no greeting card verse
no simultaneous submission
she was predictable, abstract, and cliche-ridden
i can not use you
i said
i am literature, she roared
hear me rant
i sent her back
pretentious poetre
I
toy
with form and content
so ivy league
and contemporary am I
me
a torn soul
looming over my
cup of black abyss coffee
and soul sucking cigarette
my
whiskey by my side
cliche cast to the wind
suffer the glory
of my great writing
you
pious monkey
the greatest poem in the world
one day
i will write
the great poem
my master work
not today
the new guy
in our writer's group
we critique poetry
so the poet can
improve the poem
for this to happen
the poet must suspend
his ego and prepare
to be ripped to shreds
the reward is that the poems
may become better and
the poet may become a
better writer as well as a
better critical thinker.
enter the new guy.
he has decided his work
is exceptional, like he's
going to come in and
allow us the privilege of
his skill and knowledge
he reads his first poem.
i look at jim, and he looks
back, we both look at ron,
and then the three of us
look at jen. there is
going to be trouble.
i would strike the poem, jim offers.
it doesn't ring true. in fact, it doesn't ring.
jen chimes in, economy. too wordy.
your words cheapen the poem.
i don't get it, says tom.
am i supposed to get it?
ron adds, you have a number of inaccuracies,
misspellings, and misuses of grammar.
jim reiterates, strike the poem.
the new guy seems offended,
as if, how dare they. that's the last time
i bring perfect work to a criticism group.
he never came back.
his other poems must have stunk.
the taste
of all the memories--
she most fondly
reflected on the
quiet summer days
when mother picked
berries from bushes
and placed them in her
wicker basket to use
for jams and jellies
she would follow
close enough to
snatch one or two
and put them in her
mouth, tasting the
sweetness of a
naturally pure thing
the only pure thing
she ever had in her mouth
of all the memories
by the barn
uncle dan leering
what beautiful have you left
the wet sick taste of rotting fruit
gray brown grass once green
sky field of haze burnt umber
hot dusty riverbed
memory of living things held in stone
shadow silhouettes where people once stood
now in her eyes
trust given to tears
what beautiful have you left
when winds no longer whisper
through woods
when sunlight illuminates no color
or warmth
when
alone
we wander
zen swingset
several children
went out to the park to play
but the swing set had
the seats and chains removed
for safety concerns
so the children sat
beneath the A-frame
in the lotus position
and contemplated swinging
until they got bored
and went home
