The moon is shy but bold, The moon’s made of ground goblins, The moon is a mirror. The moon doesn’t belong to me, The moon is a Frisbee, Is a scoop of lily ice cream. The moon cried louder than cats do, I heard it and came running, But then…
Two-year-old Virginia is missing Her parents look throughout the tidy Wooden house Where yellow curtains glow They go outside and peer In the shady woods Where a brook chuckles a sudden secret And small shy forest mammals Are gone to earth…
In a Purple Greeting Card for Nisarg Which has on it a painting of a full moon blobbily luminous behind the branches of the huge tree which borders the courtyard of the pyramids in the commune in Poona (What is life but a pyramid Near which is a…
Mom (age 91) recited this while we sat in the HomeTown Buffet in Eugene, Oregon with our piled plates in front of us: Little Miss Muffet Went to HomeTown Buffet And was eating her dinner one day Along came a spider And sat down beside her…
I kneel behind him Pick up my hair, half per hand And wrap it around His worked-out, pork-fed middle And there’s hair left over still to bend We pull the light in from the music Even in Kansas I wander with my wrinkled-fairy body…
It’s good for things to lie down Under snow Under snow We too will have to be Tucked under Black-armed under Into the gap, and gap Again A man old enough for wisdom Though few do know Breathes through tooth-holes Laughing…
I was boy crazy for forty years All I wanted was the flayed whale Its huge red flesh And the senseless drumbeat Which would beget no kid. Then one morning I woke up And both the thorn and the rose Had lost meaning.
They’re paired up Coupled up All over the land Man slid in woman Woman in man Mostly they’re chunky Heavy with fat But the flesh it is humming Murmurous in that Lying down gently All over the land Man lies in…
(warning: for reasons of its own, this poem will be rhyming more and more furiously as it goes along, at times lapsing into limerick. Perhaps this has something to do with the habit of roaches to clone themselves in a tumultous and accelerating way??) India, 1974 I’m heaving lemon-tarts…
As I wrote in my last post, Suppose There is No Armageddon, I threatened my teenaged niece with the specter of reading the aforementioned poem to her if she continued telling me about apocalyptic dooms a-coming. This got me thinking… and by evening I was guffawing, all by myself, with…
This poem visited me insistently over a period of weeks, demanding that I write down the stanzas even in the middle of the night, in the dark, on a pad I kept on my bedside stand. I had become fed up with cries of doom I’d been hearing from many…
Today I Killed My Bank Account Today I killed my bank account It had kept on biting me Indifferent tellers riding on its camel back Numbers jumble me like bad backass dreams I find in my alphabet soup So I took revenge I don’t pay rent,…