SELECTED POEMS 1
By Tom Miller
the hi-how-are-you-doing guy
god spends most of his time
at the public library,
and occasionally he strolls the
downtown streets
he is black, short, round
and has a big friendly face
when he sees you he says,
hi-how-are-you-doing in a loud
boisterous voice
some
answer back, fine-and-you?
some answer back, just fine.
some don’t answer back,
and that’s all right with god,
because there is always
another soul wandering
the road, or using
the library, and he will
say, hi-how-are-you-doing to
them also.
love
a look
some luck
we fuck
in the park
every day
an old man feeds birds
and screaming kids run by
chase the birds away
he yells at them
they yell back
insults and curses mostly
they run away
the birds come back
he feeds them
the kids run back
scare the birds
old man yells
they yell back
and run away
the birds come back
old man keeps feeding them
bread runs out
he sits there
birds leave
he leaves
one day
the old man
did not show
the birds came
and left
the kids came
and left
now the birds
don’t come
the kids don’t come
there’s just a bench there
month later
the parks department
took the bench
six months later
they closed the park
now what am i
going to do?
the greatest poem in the world
One day
I will write
The great poem
My master work
Not today.
this town hates me and i am glad
this town hates me
and i am glad
most all great prophets
are shunned by their towns
most all great poets
are despised by their towns
most all great artists
are kept poor by their towns
and so to this town i say
fuck you
fuck you all
and your money and your jobs
fuck your haircuts and your possessions
fuck your suits and ties
your pretend smiles
fuck your wives and your cookouts
fuck your vacation at disney world
fuck your father and fuck your mother
fuck your nights out on the town
at red lobster or bennigan’s
fuck your dreams
and your college degrees
fuck your cheap cologne
and your fancy perfume
fuck you
fuck me
fuck the whole god damned thing
i say again
this town hates me
and i am glad
rumors
betty told stan she was pregnant
stan told penelope betty was pregnant
penelope told robert that betty was not pregnant
robert told fred that betty should have been pregnant since he was the
father
- but she wasn’t
fred told edward betty had an abortion
edward told ronald that betty had a contusion
ronald told gretta that betty had confusion
gretta told erma that betty studied confucius
erma told lester that betty had converted to buddhism
lester told roger that betty had converted a buddhist
roger told susan that a perverted buddhist knocked up betty
susan told stan that betty was pregnant
stan replied, "I know. Betty told me."
bad limericks
There was a young fellow from London
Who preferred being naked - no pants on
An observer attested
He had been arrested
For wearing a duck on his hard-on
There once was a lady named gladass
Who knew several exotic dances
One day at a party
Her dress flew right off-ee
And none of the men there were flaccid
A young lady named Kalamazoo
used to wear on her head a big shoe
When the men asked her why
She started to cry
And said that’s where a third foot had grew
There once was a lady named Judy
Who once was a man name of Rudy
I heard from the maid
Surgery! Cock filet!
And now he gets laid in the booty
A lady named Molly McGee
Loved to drink all the beer she could see
She drank all year long
‘Till her liver went wrong
And now she can not stop her pee
A man with a 20 inch cock
Whose dick was as hard as a rock
Went looking for chickens
And other fine pickens
you can go just so far with a sock
the greatest poem in the world - 2
Robert Frost can not compare and Oscar Wilde can eat me
I am better then Kipling or Poe, no writer can ever beat me
Ginsberg, Bukowski, farts in the wind - Ayn Rand, she was a booby chick
War and peace a wordy waste
I’m the best writer in this place
Tennyson, Plath both give me gas, they hold no candle to me
I am the best American proser - not a Rudyard Kipling poser
I am better than Truman Capote, his writings I use for composting
Alex Haley, Stephen King, around these hacks I could write rings
Why not bow and capitulate to my will and whims you bunch of ingrates
Now I’ll cease to laud my merits and brag my worldly greatness
Hear me roar, my words you’ll adore, you horrid ugly little bores
You’ll be shouting, More! More!
I’ll be pissin’ on you whores
You will clap for my scholarly wit but let me tell you what
I’m not messin’ with that shit, Why should I, for such idio-its
Smell my butt, smell my butt…
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 winkie
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!
farting sheep
methane of
the farting sheep
powers the
smelly ferris wheel
that nobody rides
none
when a nun comes
she does not sin
when a nun sins
she does not come
life
for a roach to know
his life has meaning
he must first know
the smell of boot
dry
My pen ran dry
as I was writing
my best love poem
Like my pen
my love has run dry
like my poem
It was my best poem
ending shortly
after it began
Guess i need
a new pen
my love for you
my love for you
is like the towering ocean
like the whispering trees
and the farting sheep
my love is crazy like
a sprayed roach
like the trapped rat
and a gorilla butt hole
my eternal and undying
love for you is like
committing suicide
with a tooth pick
like stepping on a puppy
like breaking into a
bank vault with
a paper clip
my love for you
is like a face full
of pizza oil
and crusted bits of
marinara stuck
in the corner
of your willing mouth
Like yak spit in
the mouth of your mother
at her first and last
visit to the zoo
without you
I would wrap my neck
with a garden hose
and turn on the faucet
I would bungi jump
ninety feet down
with an eighty foot cord
and on the way to my death
I would scream for your kiss
A dog would
pee on my corpse
and that pee
would be to me
the symbol of your love
for my corpse
alas, I am dead
and so is my undying love
well, maybe dying
well, maybe dead
my love for you is dead and further…
my love for you
is peed on and
my love for you
is evaporating in the sun
and rotting and smelly
and posthumous
my love for you is
beyond the grave
my love for you is a
yellow and red fourteen
year old girl marching in
the parade and repeatedly
dropping her baton
until she spontaneously
explodes in a burst of
flames causing a tabloid
to print the headline,
BAD BATON BEATS BITCH INTO BLOWN BITS
my love for you
is the one chewy
rectangular carmel candy
that your mother tells you
not to eat and you
eat it anyway
my love for you is a
radio active lake from
which emerges a giant
jelly fish/giraffe combination animal
with nine arms and
two heads spraying a
stream of black smelly
sputum which immobilizes you
until the jelly fish half can
poison you and the
giraffe head can
lick all over your ear
that is how
much I love you
and that is what
I intend to do
to your ear.
matches that don't match
do you have a light
i asked the young lady
sitting next to me
at the bar
she replied
she did have a light
and then she left
me and my unlit cigarette
my first cigarette
try it,
he said
and i did
my body
tightening, neck
choked in a fist
coughing
smoke from
my lungs and after the puke,
i replied, it’s pretty good.
whore
the dirty dollars contaminated
with gonorrhea typhoid plague and death
she licks each bill
unveils her saucy oyster
green with e-coli
and they say avoid
during months with "r"
but it’s all dirty
and so am i
this april
poetic
i have spent my life
trying to be poetic
but for all my troubles
i only have a headache
what we leave behind
i remember the smoke of that bar in new orleans
and how the trumpet player
taking his solo
tickled and punched me with silver notes
and when the band took a break
i got up to tell him how moved i was
but there was only a puddle of spit
left on the stage where he was standing
and i never did see him again
i hope i go out like that
dream #16
i neutered and spayed
everything on the planet
but left the nuts on my dog
so he could fuck it all
i hate poetry
i hate most poetry
no-- strike that--
i hate it all!
now, don’t get me wrong,
i hate my stuff too, but
it’s the masters that really
stink.
you know, yeats, kipling,
poe, frost, carver, hughes, i’d
mention the girls, but
i’d have to hold my nose,
and cross my legs tightly,
then there’s bukowski.
he’s got some readable junk,
but poems? would i call them
that? no, i don’t think so. they
don’t rhyme, and they stink.
yada yada DRINK yada yada
WHORE yada yada HORSES
yada yada KILL MYSELF,
well, you got your death. now,
shut up already. jesus.
and i hate the small press, and
those pompous editors-- they’re
so fucking jaded, the lot of them.
last shit i sent out, i got a note
back with a lecture about my
cover letter being a xerox form,
kind of like the rejections i
receive over and over again in love,
and i wanna just shout, "shit, man,
are you publishing poetry or
cover letters?" it’s all a big
circle jerk anyway. i don’t think
poetry as an art is valid. seems to
me that any simpleton can
fashion a few words
into stanzas and bitch,
complain, or just rant.
Most poetry books are
a waste of paper. i’ve seen
poems that use ten words
on a whole page with some
profound idea like how real
the taste of an apple is, or
how river-like her eyes were,
and i just want to eat shit
when i read it. and what’s worse,
nobody reads poetry. in fact,
a knitting seminar would probably
draw a better crowd than any
poetry reading i can think of.
we poets are just lying to
ourselves. the joke is over. folks
are figuring it all out-- poetry in
the renaissance was held in high
regard, until people began to discover
it was all bad, and silly, and a waste
of time, and over the course of time,
the poetry audience
dropped, like lemmings, off a cliff
they didn’t want to spend time
pouring over complicated metaphor
and simile and linguistic tinker--
it just didn’t make any sense-- but
now there’s plain spoken clear poetry
coming off the beat era, poetry that doesn’t
rhyme, it just sounds like talk. there’s
nothing poetic to it. there’s no way to win.
the great poets were freaky people and
shitty writers. their work is endearing because
their persona is peculiar, but that’s all.
okay,
so you think i’m a misogynist.
fine. i’ll talk about the women. oates
sucks. plath sucks. dickinson,
moore, stein, lyfshin, and ginsberg,
sucks sucks sucks sucks sucks.
yes, i consider ginsberg to be
a lady poet. don’t you? and his
scribblings are too bogged down
in political blah blah, and have about
as much passion as a cow farting
into the ozone layer. plus, he had big
ugly frog lips. from the romantics,
to the symbolists, to the twentieth
century, there has been nothing
but aimless musings about trees,
people, oceans, emotions, and
shit like that. i’d rather go to
disney world and ride
dumbo thirty times in a row.
well, there.
i’ve said it.
poetry is bad.
all of it.
mine included.
well, no.
not really.
actually, some of it is very good.
no, i’m kidding.
it’s all bad
revision
i once revised a poem
for ten years
it contained five words
which i struck for economy
a blank page
which i discarded for lack of merit
the only perfect poem
i’ve ever written
philosophy 101
do i know anything?
how do i know if i know anything?
how do i know if i know if i know anything?
how do i know if i know if i know if i know anything?
if i know i know how do i know?
if i know i know i know how do i know i know
if i know i know i know i know how do i know i know i know?
iowa.
ohio.
innocence lost
clowns aren’t funny anymore
they’re frightening
because behind the make-up
lies an ordinary person
a sinner
thanks, john wayne gacy
you ruined my birthday party
frogger bob
frogger bob
sits on a log
and smiles a happy grin
the sun it shines
the day is fine
he waves and drinks his gin
new formalism
a writer of moderate fame came to lecture at our local poetry reading
and as he listed off his accolades and publication credits, we mocked
him
silently to ourselves between sips of beer and hidden laughter-- he
began to read, some highhanded bird poetry with the sky
and flowing waters
and all of that, and someone in the back burped-- but the gentleman went on
brushing it off like lint,
as
if it hadn’t happened, and told of his lost love and her eyes as blue
as sky and water, and more sky and water and then birds,
and others began to
burp aloud and cat call-- he was looking a little unnerved and he
reminded us
of his doctoral degrees and that he was published recently
in the new yorker,
and in poetry magazine, and the james dickey newsletter,
and one of the punks
started to masturbate and shot a load on his fist, imitating the man’s
work--
the crowd was growing restless, anxious for the smoke break,
reading their own rants to themselves, from tattered pages,
trying to determine which one to shout, and still he continued--
frankly, i admired his tenacity--
about sky and water, he introduced a mountain--
i had had enough.
i shouted, "get off the stage you hack. this is a poetry reading."
and he angrily replied,
"young man, i’ll have you know that i have been writing over
fifty years, and i have won many prestigious awards for my work
all over the country."
and i said, "stick ‘em up your ass, methuselah."
and i laughed at him,
pointing and jeering.
the rest of the audience booed him clean off the stage,
out the door,
out of town,
and i said, "thank god! now let’s get on with the poetry."
then
most of the crowd got up and convened on the sidewalk outside,
smoking cigarettes and cloves, some stayed inside and drank,
and the punk
fucked his girlfriend in the front row
while others watched,
some of them taking notes for next week’s reading.
sitting on bread or i'm on a roll
all that’s left
is a cold egg
and a cup of flour
i have often tried
to make bread
and produced
flat failure
now, poor,
hungry,
i mix a cup
of flour, the
egg, half a cup
of water
bake at 375
as my lover
storms away
screaming
about how
i have wasted
food again
and i think
to myself
if it tastes
like a brick
i will eat it
anyway
and remember
the time
i have wasted
trying to bake
this failed relationship
bum park
and they sit
in ape groups drinking
mouthwash
keeping watch
in zebra groups
laughing like hyenas
in parrot groups
shouting out, mocking
like people
i meditated and thought of elvis
who gave the world this poem through me
uh huh huh uh huh huh
uh well uh bless uh my soul
uh huh huh
stork
a stork comes uh runnin
with his lanky legs
and his oversized eggs
he’s a big round thing
with a corkscrew dick
and a tiny little head
you can pinch ‘till it’s dead
oh silly funny ostrich
they don’t hide their heads
that’s only a tale
told by the wives and
i ain’t lyin’
now wait just a minute
did i say ostrich?
no, i said stork
but ostrich is the bird
i was talkin’ about
don’t scream and shout
‘cause that crazy old gorilla
is pickin’ out the fleas
and do what you please
‘cause i ain’t here to warn ya’
nor am i here to scorn ya’
you flapping dirty crow
did i say crow? i meant…
stork-- ostrich
i don’t know
what the hell do i know
don’t know birds
i just know words
and words is what this is
about birds birds birds
and that’s all i have
to tell you now
go get a cow and
suck out the brain
you furry jack-o-lantern
i’ll see you on saturn
oh, but does my back burn
when i stay out in the sun
but the sun don’t shine
unless i’m drinking wine
like the wine i’m drinking now
90 proof and quualudes
90 proof and quualudes...
i once sniffed magic markers until my nose bled
i found a bluejay with a broken wing
black eyes following me-- looking
looking at me as i gently grasped
and her tiny heart racing with fear
are you my mother?
and put her in a shoebox
and drizzled milk across her beak
with a baby bottle nipple
lightly stroking its head with my finger
and asking aloud for the jay to survive
this randomness
perhaps through my compassion
it might fly again-- soaring above snow capped
mountains and bluegreen seas
and a few days later
she sang a note-- a beautiful note
stronger, little friend, i said
you will be in the sky again,
my glorious bluejay-- you will
rise above the city and to the
heavens
carrying, upon your wings,
your angel music, up to the
soul of god and into the stratosphere
and later, it turned out, i
drowned the poor creature with milk
too much milk,
and it died
i tossed it in the toilet
after an unholy shit,
and went to shoot me another one
my analyst says i shoot better
on prozac
the cat is throwing up
in the aquarium
otters live in my nut sack.
By Tom Miller
the hi-how-are-you-doing guy
god spends most of his time
at the public library,
and occasionally he strolls the
downtown streets
he is black, short, round
and has a big friendly face
when he sees you he says,
hi-how-are-you-doing in a loud
boisterous voice
some
answer back, fine-and-you?
some answer back, just fine.
some don’t answer back,
and that’s all right with god,
because there is always
another soul wandering
the road, or using
the library, and he will
say, hi-how-are-you-doing to
them also.
love
a look
some luck
we fuck
in the park
every day
an old man feeds birds
and screaming kids run by
chase the birds away
he yells at them
they yell back
insults and curses mostly
they run away
the birds come back
he feeds them
the kids run back
scare the birds
old man yells
they yell back
and run away
the birds come back
old man keeps feeding them
bread runs out
he sits there
birds leave
he leaves
one day
the old man
did not show
the birds came
and left
the kids came
and left
now the birds
don’t come
the kids don’t come
there’s just a bench there
month later
the parks department
took the bench
six months later
they closed the park
now what am i
going to do?
the greatest poem in the world
One day
I will write
The great poem
My master work
Not today.
this town hates me and i am glad
this town hates me
and i am glad
most all great prophets
are shunned by their towns
most all great poets
are despised by their towns
most all great artists
are kept poor by their towns
and so to this town i say
fuck you
fuck you all
and your money and your jobs
fuck your haircuts and your possessions
fuck your suits and ties
your pretend smiles
fuck your wives and your cookouts
fuck your vacation at disney world
fuck your father and fuck your mother
fuck your nights out on the town
at red lobster or bennigan’s
fuck your dreams
and your college degrees
fuck your cheap cologne
and your fancy perfume
fuck you
fuck me
fuck the whole god damned thing
i say again
this town hates me
and i am glad
rumors
betty told stan she was pregnant
stan told penelope betty was pregnant
penelope told robert that betty was not pregnant
robert told fred that betty should have been pregnant since he was the
father
- but she wasn’t
fred told edward betty had an abortion
edward told ronald that betty had a contusion
ronald told gretta that betty had confusion
gretta told erma that betty studied confucius
erma told lester that betty had converted to buddhism
lester told roger that betty had converted a buddhist
roger told susan that a perverted buddhist knocked up betty
susan told stan that betty was pregnant
stan replied, "I know. Betty told me."
bad limericks
There was a young fellow from London
Who preferred being naked - no pants on
An observer attested
He had been arrested
For wearing a duck on his hard-on
There once was a lady named gladass
Who knew several exotic dances
One day at a party
Her dress flew right off-ee
And none of the men there were flaccid
A young lady named Kalamazoo
used to wear on her head a big shoe
When the men asked her why
She started to cry
And said that’s where a third foot had grew
There once was a lady named Judy
Who once was a man name of Rudy
I heard from the maid
Surgery! Cock filet!
And now he gets laid in the booty
A lady named Molly McGee
Loved to drink all the beer she could see
She drank all year long
‘Till her liver went wrong
And now she can not stop her pee
A man with a 20 inch cock
Whose dick was as hard as a rock
Went looking for chickens
And other fine pickens
you can go just so far with a sock
the greatest poem in the world - 2
Robert Frost can not compare and Oscar Wilde can eat me
I am better then Kipling or Poe, no writer can ever beat me
Ginsberg, Bukowski, farts in the wind - Ayn Rand, she was a booby chick
War and peace a wordy waste
I’m the best writer in this place
Tennyson, Plath both give me gas, they hold no candle to me
I am the best American proser - not a Rudyard Kipling poser
I am better than Truman Capote, his writings I use for composting
Alex Haley, Stephen King, around these hacks I could write rings
Why not bow and capitulate to my will and whims you bunch of ingrates
Now I’ll cease to laud my merits and brag my worldly greatness
Hear me roar, my words you’ll adore, you horrid ugly little bores
You’ll be shouting, More! More!
I’ll be pissin’ on you whores
You will clap for my scholarly wit but let me tell you what
I’m not messin’ with that shit, Why should I, for such idio-its
Smell my butt, smell my butt…
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 winkie
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!
farting sheep
methane of
the farting sheep
powers the
smelly ferris wheel
that nobody rides
none
when a nun comes
she does not sin
when a nun sins
she does not come
life
for a roach to know
his life has meaning
he must first know
the smell of boot
dry
My pen ran dry
as I was writing
my best love poem
Like my pen
my love has run dry
like my poem
It was my best poem
ending shortly
after it began
Guess i need
a new pen
my love for you
my love for you
is like the towering ocean
like the whispering trees
and the farting sheep
my love is crazy like
a sprayed roach
like the trapped rat
and a gorilla butt hole
my eternal and undying
love for you is like
committing suicide
with a tooth pick
like stepping on a puppy
like breaking into a
bank vault with
a paper clip
my love for you
is like a face full
of pizza oil
and crusted bits of
marinara stuck
in the corner
of your willing mouth
Like yak spit in
the mouth of your mother
at her first and last
visit to the zoo
without you
I would wrap my neck
with a garden hose
and turn on the faucet
I would bungi jump
ninety feet down
with an eighty foot cord
and on the way to my death
I would scream for your kiss
A dog would
pee on my corpse
and that pee
would be to me
the symbol of your love
for my corpse
alas, I am dead
and so is my undying love
well, maybe dying
well, maybe dead
my love for you is dead and further…
my love for you
is peed on and
my love for you
is evaporating in the sun
and rotting and smelly
and posthumous
my love for you is
beyond the grave
my love for you is a
yellow and red fourteen
year old girl marching in
the parade and repeatedly
dropping her baton
until she spontaneously
explodes in a burst of
flames causing a tabloid
to print the headline,
BAD BATON BEATS BITCH INTO BLOWN BITS
my love for you
is the one chewy
rectangular carmel candy
that your mother tells you
not to eat and you
eat it anyway
my love for you is a
radio active lake from
which emerges a giant
jelly fish/giraffe combination animal
with nine arms and
two heads spraying a
stream of black smelly
sputum which immobilizes you
until the jelly fish half can
poison you and the
giraffe head can
lick all over your ear
that is how
much I love you
and that is what
I intend to do
to your ear.
matches that don't match
do you have a light
i asked the young lady
sitting next to me
at the bar
she replied
she did have a light
and then she left
me and my unlit cigarette
my first cigarette
try it,
he said
and i did
my body
tightening, neck
choked in a fist
coughing
smoke from
my lungs and after the puke,
i replied, it’s pretty good.
whore
the dirty dollars contaminated
with gonorrhea typhoid plague and death
she licks each bill
unveils her saucy oyster
green with e-coli
and they say avoid
during months with "r"
but it’s all dirty
and so am i
this april
poetic
i have spent my life
trying to be poetic
but for all my troubles
i only have a headache
what we leave behind
i remember the smoke of that bar in new orleans
and how the trumpet player
taking his solo
tickled and punched me with silver notes
and when the band took a break
i got up to tell him how moved i was
but there was only a puddle of spit
left on the stage where he was standing
and i never did see him again
i hope i go out like that
dream #16
i neutered and spayed
everything on the planet
but left the nuts on my dog
so he could fuck it all
i hate poetry
i hate most poetry
no-- strike that--
i hate it all!
now, don’t get me wrong,
i hate my stuff too, but
it’s the masters that really
stink.
you know, yeats, kipling,
poe, frost, carver, hughes, i’d
mention the girls, but
i’d have to hold my nose,
and cross my legs tightly,
then there’s bukowski.
he’s got some readable junk,
but poems? would i call them
that? no, i don’t think so. they
don’t rhyme, and they stink.
yada yada DRINK yada yada
WHORE yada yada HORSES
yada yada KILL MYSELF,
well, you got your death. now,
shut up already. jesus.
and i hate the small press, and
those pompous editors-- they’re
so fucking jaded, the lot of them.
last shit i sent out, i got a note
back with a lecture about my
cover letter being a xerox form,
kind of like the rejections i
receive over and over again in love,
and i wanna just shout, "shit, man,
are you publishing poetry or
cover letters?" it’s all a big
circle jerk anyway. i don’t think
poetry as an art is valid. seems to
me that any simpleton can
fashion a few words
into stanzas and bitch,
complain, or just rant.
Most poetry books are
a waste of paper. i’ve seen
poems that use ten words
on a whole page with some
profound idea like how real
the taste of an apple is, or
how river-like her eyes were,
and i just want to eat shit
when i read it. and what’s worse,
nobody reads poetry. in fact,
a knitting seminar would probably
draw a better crowd than any
poetry reading i can think of.
we poets are just lying to
ourselves. the joke is over. folks
are figuring it all out-- poetry in
the renaissance was held in high
regard, until people began to discover
it was all bad, and silly, and a waste
of time, and over the course of time,
the poetry audience
dropped, like lemmings, off a cliff
they didn’t want to spend time
pouring over complicated metaphor
and simile and linguistic tinker--
it just didn’t make any sense-- but
now there’s plain spoken clear poetry
coming off the beat era, poetry that doesn’t
rhyme, it just sounds like talk. there’s
nothing poetic to it. there’s no way to win.
the great poets were freaky people and
shitty writers. their work is endearing because
their persona is peculiar, but that’s all.
okay,
so you think i’m a misogynist.
fine. i’ll talk about the women. oates
sucks. plath sucks. dickinson,
moore, stein, lyfshin, and ginsberg,
sucks sucks sucks sucks sucks.
yes, i consider ginsberg to be
a lady poet. don’t you? and his
scribblings are too bogged down
in political blah blah, and have about
as much passion as a cow farting
into the ozone layer. plus, he had big
ugly frog lips. from the romantics,
to the symbolists, to the twentieth
century, there has been nothing
but aimless musings about trees,
people, oceans, emotions, and
shit like that. i’d rather go to
disney world and ride
dumbo thirty times in a row.
well, there.
i’ve said it.
poetry is bad.
all of it.
mine included.
well, no.
not really.
actually, some of it is very good.
no, i’m kidding.
it’s all bad
revision
i once revised a poem
for ten years
it contained five words
which i struck for economy
a blank page
which i discarded for lack of merit
the only perfect poem
i’ve ever written
philosophy 101
do i know anything?
how do i know if i know anything?
how do i know if i know if i know anything?
how do i know if i know if i know if i know anything?
if i know i know how do i know?
if i know i know i know how do i know i know
if i know i know i know i know how do i know i know i know?
iowa.
ohio.
innocence lost
clowns aren’t funny anymore
they’re frightening
because behind the make-up
lies an ordinary person
a sinner
thanks, john wayne gacy
you ruined my birthday party
frogger bob
frogger bob
sits on a log
and smiles a happy grin
the sun it shines
the day is fine
he waves and drinks his gin
new formalism
a writer of moderate fame came to lecture at our local poetry reading
and as he listed off his accolades and publication credits, we mocked
him
silently to ourselves between sips of beer and hidden laughter-- he
began to read, some highhanded bird poetry with the sky
and flowing waters
and all of that, and someone in the back burped-- but the gentleman went on
brushing it off like lint,
as
if it hadn’t happened, and told of his lost love and her eyes as blue
as sky and water, and more sky and water and then birds,
and others began to
burp aloud and cat call-- he was looking a little unnerved and he
reminded us
of his doctoral degrees and that he was published recently
in the new yorker,
and in poetry magazine, and the james dickey newsletter,
and one of the punks
started to masturbate and shot a load on his fist, imitating the man’s
work--
the crowd was growing restless, anxious for the smoke break,
reading their own rants to themselves, from tattered pages,
trying to determine which one to shout, and still he continued--
frankly, i admired his tenacity--
about sky and water, he introduced a mountain--
i had had enough.
i shouted, "get off the stage you hack. this is a poetry reading."
and he angrily replied,
"young man, i’ll have you know that i have been writing over
fifty years, and i have won many prestigious awards for my work
all over the country."
and i said, "stick ‘em up your ass, methuselah."
and i laughed at him,
pointing and jeering.
the rest of the audience booed him clean off the stage,
out the door,
out of town,
and i said, "thank god! now let’s get on with the poetry."
then
most of the crowd got up and convened on the sidewalk outside,
smoking cigarettes and cloves, some stayed inside and drank,
and the punk
fucked his girlfriend in the front row
while others watched,
some of them taking notes for next week’s reading.
sitting on bread or i'm on a roll
all that’s left
is a cold egg
and a cup of flour
i have often tried
to make bread
and produced
flat failure
now, poor,
hungry,
i mix a cup
of flour, the
egg, half a cup
of water
bake at 375
as my lover
storms away
screaming
about how
i have wasted
food again
and i think
to myself
if it tastes
like a brick
i will eat it
anyway
and remember
the time
i have wasted
trying to bake
this failed relationship
bum park
and they sit
in ape groups drinking
mouthwash
keeping watch
in zebra groups
laughing like hyenas
in parrot groups
shouting out, mocking
like people
i meditated and thought of elvis
who gave the world this poem through me
uh huh huh uh huh huh
uh well uh bless uh my soul
uh huh huh
stork
a stork comes uh runnin
with his lanky legs
and his oversized eggs
he’s a big round thing
with a corkscrew dick
and a tiny little head
you can pinch ‘till it’s dead
oh silly funny ostrich
they don’t hide their heads
that’s only a tale
told by the wives and
i ain’t lyin’
now wait just a minute
did i say ostrich?
no, i said stork
but ostrich is the bird
i was talkin’ about
don’t scream and shout
‘cause that crazy old gorilla
is pickin’ out the fleas
and do what you please
‘cause i ain’t here to warn ya’
nor am i here to scorn ya’
you flapping dirty crow
did i say crow? i meant…
stork-- ostrich
i don’t know
what the hell do i know
don’t know birds
i just know words
and words is what this is
about birds birds birds
and that’s all i have
to tell you now
go get a cow and
suck out the brain
you furry jack-o-lantern
i’ll see you on saturn
oh, but does my back burn
when i stay out in the sun
but the sun don’t shine
unless i’m drinking wine
like the wine i’m drinking now
90 proof and quualudes
90 proof and quualudes...
i once sniffed magic markers until my nose bled
i found a bluejay with a broken wing
black eyes following me-- looking
looking at me as i gently grasped
and her tiny heart racing with fear
are you my mother?
and put her in a shoebox
and drizzled milk across her beak
with a baby bottle nipple
lightly stroking its head with my finger
and asking aloud for the jay to survive
this randomness
perhaps through my compassion
it might fly again-- soaring above snow capped
mountains and bluegreen seas
and a few days later
she sang a note-- a beautiful note
stronger, little friend, i said
you will be in the sky again,
my glorious bluejay-- you will
rise above the city and to the
heavens
carrying, upon your wings,
your angel music, up to the
soul of god and into the stratosphere
and later, it turned out, i
drowned the poor creature with milk
too much milk,
and it died
i tossed it in the toilet
after an unholy shit,
and went to shoot me another one
my analyst says i shoot better
on prozac
the cat is throwing up
in the aquarium
otters live in my nut sack.
