today's poem - Four Dope Jams

 

Four Dope Jams

 

life   popeye and olive oyl simulate and repeat till now is it real now   cartoon things think already things I didn’t think thought   put upon put up on her shelf upon a shelf   just like themselves   thinking thwarting ly things situate always to cartoon my mind	cartoon   unlikelinesses and it’s in a blink dazily dozily done astonishedly   gravity-defiantly shown through practice makes perfect momentarily forever   fictive surrogates in pre-visualization objects unconscious revolve in still time
on-line   a mere representation quicktimes its own   daydreamily droned self wrinkling away from   heavenly obstacles and protrusions of grandeur   over and over then it happens transcendent   I watch again the againing a burnt imprint of a dream   all ideas being all ideas that are stuck in place	dream   emblem at the hearth a speed of light error subconscientious nature bwanahat geological movements as tangerine universes spin in a big oozing sacrifice and eons by moments blow my collective mind in observational blips as clattering chatterbirds of capitol everyworld streets radiate a radiant static

Today's Poem - "Community Service"

community service

metal trashcans, converted oil drums

painted brightly by laughing children
music from distant islands

we drive the red trucks by map

delivering the barrels to doorsteps

and civic park fountains, street corners

my feet, arms, legs and head aching

I pass the bag of chili potato chips

the bottle of LSD spiked bourbon

Today's poem - Garden

Garden

 

A brick wall is a kind of sign

one that anyone can read:

no over, no under, no through

 

Four make an enclosure

to deny the unicorn

 

Inside, a circular path

is slowly scribed

against four corners

in order to wander

as if still free

 

Inversions keep us whole

and circles and distance

displace lives we dream of

something false to leverage

recurring what can unwind

 

Into such a place come formulae

admirable in structure

superimposed from without

on the opposite side

of four walls and consistent peace

  

Today's poem - "A book cover is a brick wall"

A book cover is a brick wall

 

We enclose the world just in case, 

read it backward so everything is clear

and test read (forward) so it seems

to logically progress in reverse order

 

Making better sense read backward

a book (supposition by supposition)

may be foundation for previous

claims before its start-proposition

 

Two brick walls form a frame

for all perambulations in-between

as well as complementary thoughts

and internal silent precedents

 

Circular nature recalls other thoughts

which follow brick by brick formulae

and designs we find in the facade

as we consider masonry as works of art

 

A most attractive approach is design

the brick-wall version of honest artistry

immediately appealing philosophy

in the form of time and the substance of a wall

 

The bite-size-chunk-nature of red brick

the terseness of moonlight inter-divides

shadows that are sleepwalker-friendly  

opposite the thorniness of vines up walls

 

Architecture may explain influence

while being debatable but I hardly agree

its attraction is aesthetic, and am amused 

as I am by a brick wall on a book cover

In the Valley of Mu --- today's poem

In the Valley of Mu

where plastic fish race dilapidated pilgrims’ last wishes

leaving cantankerous ashcan traces on deer-hidden mountains

where broken water fountains sever from former sewer mains

and stank tank erosion  causes septic explosions to unyield

modus operandi notions and last gasps of determine flailing

aspirationally to weigh the uncooked biochemical pie

 

in the course of coarse human tent events bears force

bare force on meretricious minions to unleaven the bourse

observationally as I curse, mired in alternative goo

seen from freedoms you overhear in the Valley of Mu

where you can’t glow home again to your trashcan chalice

as your dustbin wheel of fire unloads holy puzzlement

 

Snakeries of disastreams gloom, glomming onto rigamarole

in long patterns of screaming sun zoom plasticization

as Miss Astor’s disaster wall plaster falls into a Pink Floyd void

exterminating folly far beyond aromatizers and gassers

as tokens of dream-punch unwhisten in master’s empty head

 

where illuminated there is a bright jewel in a red wine cask

sending out laser beam light masking cosmic wave cataclysms

as our universe implodes on that golden mountain rim of dawn

and cheap cardboard scepters wave at fiberglass spaceships

as mock lava burbles and spurts against an amateur backdrop

calamatizing me in foggy mist with low mind-penetrating furor

 

Today's poem "Snow Falling on Montpelier" (written 1/5/18)

Snow Falling on Montpelier

Boots print down crystal snow in dentation

sinking slightly in powder, blown around

conditions signal winter weather, you know

snow still snows in a white-out situation

cold winds whip the snow snake snarling

micro-crystalline silver flecks are falling

footstep slide-steps up cold granite steps

careful preambular precipitation precepts

handrail holds snow-dusted icy remnants

enter and exit shivering MFA students

weather apps are all reading minus zero

I’m sticking to the café: I’m no hero

today's poem - "isn't it all just words"

isn’t it all just words

empty phrases, open windows

 

stale dust on gummy floors

of former cattleman’s bars

 

sites closed by tut-tutting societals

swinging sharpened conformist axes

 

a breeze blowing by a dust devil

seems also to so-what the word-spin

 

that thinks it wants to be wound

quite aside from the physical thrill

 

the showy peacock feathers

of the mandatory mating ritual

 

and also the old men on the square

appreciating a good yarn unspinning

 

repeated exact with asides and pauses

glints of recognition to tribal knowledge

 

the women of the village on the bankside

washing the hands that wove the cloth

 

that just seems to some the roll of a river

or the wobble of a flophouse cot

 

it could be the detection of phantom thoughts

or long held truths, beauty in a wince

 

wine from a bottle pouring ever fragrant

into a summer crystal shoe to share again

 

or just the sleepy tenant song of a dream

hazed around beams of golden light