Last night
the old cat
out slept my goodnight pill.

T'is the season,
pigeons fare on handouts,
the homeless sell papers
that no one reads,
Mexicans wage a drug war
around about Juarez,
the Chinese run their factories
on foreign waste,
North Korean bunglers
roar 'n reign,
while South Koreans fawn and feign,
the Russians fine tune
their vanishing democracy,
Europe is all a plunder,
Greece, Ireland, Italy, Spain,
Bailed out ***** bankers
bailing bundles of bullock,
they securities and sell,
Retirement fund managers can't buy enough.
The US is on overdrive,
hot color alerts,
underwear bombers everywhere lurk,
every life is precious
when it serves our needs,
at the airports,
*** tourists smile with glee,
looking forward to having their packages ******,
Oh, to be a Belizian, or maybe Swiss,
and be able to say "cheese" to all of this.

Morning, white horse fencing,
Black cat, jaguar walks top edge
Through the early hour mist.

Let us go ewe and I
When with bleating out against the sky
Like patent leather renowned in fable,
Let us go, though uncertain quartered feats,
The mutton retreats
Of restless nights in fun house hotels
And raw dust l'enfant motels:
Bleats that bellow like hideous ungulates
In unheated tents
To bleed you to an ouvre question ...
Oh, go ahead and ask, " Feel my ***?"
Let us go us two misfits.
...

*Apologies to T.S. Elliot

We like our anger pickled
dessicated, fried.
We've had it boiled, baked,
rewarmed, microwaved on high.
We most enjoy it on holidays
served across the table
by siblings that we despise.

I saw the best behinds of my generation destroyed by muffins,
strudel hydrolyzed aphids dragging themselves through Chicano streets at dawn for tickets to fix,
bagel headed tipsters yearning for flagrant connection to the sorry dim sum macarena nights ...

*apologies to Allen Ginsberg

Let's be Frank,
Bruce, or Wally,
You're in the loo,
A modern lad,
You want your jollies,
In one hand you scroll you're iPad,
In the other you're texting,
"? what I - M doing?!"

So much depends
On the black cat
sleeping on the red sofa
flanked by two white pillows.

Skyward streak of light,
Sun glints off satellite,
Marionette play.

Tenacious ice spike,
A Sun lit jewel at noon,
drip, drip, drip, drip, pool.

I pen my thoughts
upon the bottom of a hidden lake
that reflects a moon,
in the way old men shake
with quivering lips
that worry bead
each any every breath
that zoetrope lives mislead.
I too rise each day to a cellophane sun,
that tricks and flutters
vertigo dreams
upon a bed of Hazelnut wings.

a red moon tonight,
star mat, arch framed in night black,
lunar eclipse.

Silent assumptions,
have sunk more boats,
than all the guided ordinance,
ever manufactured.

updated prayer wheel
recursively twitters
Om mani padme hum.

*******, *******, Where art thou *******?

to take nothing
to add nothing
to reflect all
to retire "to"

Riding a double decker 4B
from Trinity to Terrenure,
one hand clutching
an overhead strap,
St. Stephen's Green
Frames a Celtic redhead,
exciting priestly thoughts.

This may not be a poem,
more like a beef,
an irritation,
a shock and awe annoyance,
that too, too, too many poems
by keyed up scribblers,
package their custard mustard innards
with the same skill three year olds
wrap a present for their mothers,
fully expecting the same mom response,
"Honey, this is so lovely."
There is no disgrace
in learning by failing.
Fail, fail, fail,
But do it honestly.
Read five books of poems
before you write
one miserable haiku.

Ms. West,
Shall I call you Oesta?
Do you read Proust,
Or Jackelyn Susan,
better yet, Susan Sontag?
Home schooled?
Lived in another land?
Were I to say "Portnoy "
Would you fill in with "Complaint?"
"Madrigal" from me
would elicit "Trecento" from you?
How would silence feel
were we to meet in your room?

If I lived in Hawaii
I'd wear a glass skirt,
Panhandle tourists,
or lie on the beach
and get lai-ed by pretty girls.

If your face were a barn
You'd have swallows
Coming 'n going out a ya nose.

And your hands:
If they were a bridge
You'd have pigeons
****-walking 'n cooing
In the web's of your skin.

And your hair!
It's already a nest,
Fringe all around
With a crocodile egg topp'n ya up there.

*Exaggerated physical illustration encouraged

I dare to feel,
with searching fingers,
a bifurcated wish
to take the path to you
or the one that leads to me.

I dare to feel,
asking only
from you, my sweet,
your thoughtful understanding.

My naked vulnerability
to your alluring charms,
that I,
that we,
could be washed with rain,
As if lust and sin
Could be so easily entertained.

I dare to feel,
I dare to feel,
the disappointment
I know will come,
will come,
as our bridge decays
with the vanity that is your way.
Or is it MY WAY?

Our times are filled with wonderment!
Today, the news announced
that a same *** couple
would soon be able
to inseminate each other.
No, that's not right.
Please excuse the foolpaux,
My facts are in Eros.
I'll start again,
Today, scientist announced
that they were able
To stem two mice cells
Into a wee one,
Which holds the promise
That some day
Two committed gals, or guys
would be able to have a little bubala.

Arctic air ,
a Canadian export,
not ledgered in any book of trade,
replaced hunger as the body's sole attention.
There will be time for additional Canadian exports:
wheat, canola, eggs, bacon, beans, potatoes...
But the temperature plunge
routed the homeless last night
from their million dollar bridge encampments,
scattering their shanty collective,
into a forced survival march to heated shelters.
"Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.  
Come in my children.
God loves you."

Languid lapping waves,
Here a mud stuck pier,
The distant hills have failed again
To halt a falling flare.

Though
Their bodies are benched on Church Street,
Their minds are capable
Of startling flight,
Time travel,
Trans Universe travel,
Invisible train travel
They take the blue line -
"All aboard for Valhalla, Inferno, Acadia, Hades,
Bliss, Abandon, Elysium, Pandemonia ..."
They sway clutching the overhead strap,
Eyes glazed, rheumy, vacant, or fiendishly happy,
Transfixed by the scenic whir that no one can see
But them.

The surface level of a liquid,
In a tube or water glass,
Has an illusory crescent zone
Known as the meniscus,
Where light is scattered
In such a way
That it throws the eye off
Just a little,
The way a good poem
Can throw off the coherent mind,
While revealing a deeper truth.

Where is the seat of psychic pain?
Are MRI's made to trace the vein
To neuron neighborhoods
Sealed, yet synapse connected,
One to another
By chain link fences?

Walkin' in circles,
Thoughts follow,
All's a muddle.
Vortexin' eWaves of self splunder
Leaving nothing intricate,
But fauxtons.

if you like this poem
send a dollar
to my Paypal account.

Paypal is a trademark
owned by Paypal.
A cash cow,
mooing dung piles of lazy loot
tucked away in thousands of accounts
like stormed tossed buccaneer's ate.

thus far
i'm an energy star poet,
as green as green can be,
where nary a word of mine
has befelled a single tree.

when you die
all the importantness
that inflates your skin
hisses out,
a virtual pressure cooker
sitting on a warm burner
turned to off.

I soar in your wake,
just below your cruising attitude,
a glowworm alight in your reflection.
Dude,
I'm looking at you!

would i be the first
if i were to incorporeally script
an antithology
starting with two white on white end papers
and filling their in between
with N-minus-one
intrinsic diswholeness (imagine symbol for shrugged shoulders here)

Who can know sweet
When one has yet to taste sour,
Or appreciate salt,
When one eats bread without sodium?

This Pribilof of squirming words!
Washed by a raging sea of blues,
Thousands of big eye pups alone,
Face monitors in glowing light,
Hunt and peck their bleeding hearts,
Until this seething e-mound is awash in dread.
Oh god Thesaurus you do reign, rain,
You have no mercy for those well read.
Will someone please surcease your Siren call.
A blade, a knife, and a dagger too,
Anything to sever their pluck harp cords
that fret a morass of woe-been-done-wrong torment.

Imagine starting over again,
Imagine a clean slate!
Imagine the possibilities,
Imagine the dread.
Imagine all your sins forgiven,
Imagine having *** tonight,
Yet tomorrow still  a ******.
If you can imagine this
Then you have too much imagination.

Wanted,
Blue haired ladies,
My wife tells that not PC anymore,
Needing an event speaker,
A poet.
I have a groaning chap book
Of metered observations.
Not much in my work to cause a blush.
But I do aim to burp a thought or two.

Welcome to Cloud Corp.,
We're in the air,
We're everywhere,
24/7/365 plus leaps.
No need to yellow your walking fingers
To reach out and touch someone.
We're everywhere,
Ethernet, WiFi, bluetooth.
We're behind the scenes,
We are the scene,
Promising that we're never mean,
Just ramping up your thought-put,
Instantaneously as we speak,
Googo-hoo,
twit-face,
Sky-bay,
Amazonia with free ship,
Making it too **** simple
To Lean back and Digg your Drudge.

I'm writing to report
that you were recently captured
within one of my randomly cast
thought nets.

Love mourner
Angst angler
Thesaurus eyer
Rip-rapper
Suet idler
Dream creamer
Cascade scribbler
Intro-***-er
Guts gusher
Endorphinater
Sonnet snoozer
Trochee tripper
Iambic lamer
Spondee sniveler
Whisper whipper
Music quencher
Apt-less  adjectiver
Yeast yearner
Simile stitcher
Metaphor monger
Exclaimationizer!

Glacier,
Flake
Time
Crystal
Collective
Mass
Gravity,
Flow
Breakin­g
Celibate
Monastic
Oath
In
This
Cathedral
Tower
Bedrock
Cracking­
Groans
Moans
Under
Exponential
Cave
Crush
Crevasse
Plowing
Scori­ng
Tearing
Mush
Melt
Calving
Diving
Block
By
Block
Headlong
Into
­Wave
Reflecting
Clouds.

Too
Soon
Luxuries
Become
Necessities
Binding
Us
To
Yet
Another
Crippling
Wrap
Until
Stand­ing
On
One's
Own
Feet
Too
Is
Nigh
Impossible.

Vestigial  seas
Pumped briny red
By chambered hearts
In pulsing waves
Lub dub
Dub.

Someone, somewhere
Is busy stitching
Clothes I've yet to buy
And, of course, yet to wear.

The shirt, pants, and underwear
I'm now wearing,
Someone, somewhere
did that stitching.

Out there somewhere
Someone's planting
Seeds in furrowed rows
Waiting for a month, two, three of sun,
To green and bloom that fruit,
Then swift harvest hands,
And Trucks, then vans,
Somewhere,  somehow,
A portion will find my plate.

If there is a way of expressing thanks
To those someones, somewhere
It's to stop a moment
And simply think!

One stone,
One placid lake,
One toss,
Ripple, ripple, ripple ...

Can you feel the lash,
My butterfly kiss,
My little hands,
My cupid lips?
Mommy, mommy,
Wakeup!
Are you okay?
Are you sick?

My building pans for gold
In these hard times,
And for its efforts
Has desilted some glinty nuggets,
Employed twenty-somethings!
Roll in your grave Che Guevara,
Here no one is packing bullets to the hills.
This band of twenty-somethings
Multi task marble halls thumbs all a twitter,
"tgif...come over, wine, pizza, stay the night?"

Mary and Joseph if you're still looking for your son,
He's sleeping in the park
Along with his disciples.
Their last supper was a dumpster dive
Of congealed chinese, smelling of fish sauce.

The rivers
          that oxbow
             slither
    down the Cumberland drain
        in May
                 SWOLE
M-E-A-N------F-a-t-----P--R--E--G--N--A--N--T,
         hungry pregnant,
walking the floor & opening the fridge pregnant,
drown your own mother for a nosh pregnant,
    cantankerously mad pregnant,
flowing from car to car, truck to truck and house to house,
   through crawl space, doors, and windows,
down halls, laddering stairs, licking banisters, cresting attics,
    feeding, feeding, feeding, feeding
on the stacked labor of years and years,
feeding, feeding, feeding
on unbelieving minds and dumb stares,
feeding, feeding, feeding,
     on "We've lost everything",
"Oh, my God."s
    and tears.