Archive for April 28, 2017

April 28: Surveillance, Fountain Bursts, Spirals, continuation

At the threat center, the hot threat venter

Takes comfort: he keeps a grand eye on things.

Life is for the surveillance presenter,

Who will drone on until eyes have grown wings.


Without being watched the world could be botched

And bungled: we need strong hands with our gaze.

The herds can all be beered, bourboned, and scotched:

No one gives a damn as long as we graze.


So we submit to the worst we’d admit—

It’s shameful: each day becomes a striptease.

Someone says we should bow down and eat shit;

We drop to our knees and ask for more, please.


The eyes of great gods mean nothing today:

A holy vision would get in the way.


I don’t mean to gush if you’re in rush,

But late at night, when you listen, it’s lush:

City secrets get whispered in water

In fountains run clear while sensing slaughter:

Businessmen, criminals, all in a hush.


But this babbling bit must be mere mush!

Downtown décor adds excess for the plush:

Make no more of this fantasy fodder—

I don’t mean to gush.


Think of a fountain and start feeling flush;

Imagine each burst is a dam you crush.

Smacking down hang-ups with a prude-swatter,

You may get wet, but you’ll get much hotter—

The dribbles tickle you like a hairbrush—

I don’t mean to gush.


Select symbols for versatility.

People know shapes will mean just what you say.

Spiraling down has strange ability:


Biking downhill has risibility,

A laughing good time to wind down the day.

Select symbols for versatility.


Downward spirals’ full visibility

Would signal a person bound for dismay.

Spiraling down has strange ability


To dull sensing life’s livability.

Things black and white look increasingly grey.

Select symbols for versatility,


And you’ll see their endless utility,

The magic of twisting any which way:

Spiraling down has strange ability!


When you’ve absorbed complete futility

And seen all meaning as mere joyless play,

Select symbols for versatility:

Spiraling down has strange ability.


To help those who like the world well-labeled,

Columbus was a great deal enabled.

People who fetishize taxonomy

Enjoy the fringes of astronomy

Because of things they’ve arranged and tabled.


Around here for folks it’s widely fabled,

Dude said this was that (with God he cabled),

That’s how things got to be for you and me

To help those who like the world well-labeled.


The problem is, we Tower of Babeled.

Which label’s whose—we’re whited, we’re sabled—

We don’t know we all have the same decree,

Reverence for life in philosophy—

We know what we are, not why we’re stabled

To help those who like the world well-labeled.

Big Days

Big days break routines in devious ways

With party hootings that make a big craze

For lucky people who participate

In festivity—they’re insatiate—

Carnival happenings, made to amaze!


Yet big day tensions put some in a daze

Like heroes caught in a robot’s death rays.

High times are groovy but not always great—

Big days.


Fine, but when you hold them up to your gaze

You’ll find that most of their big glory stays.

Not every minute has to inflate

A sense of wonder designed to elate

As long as memories live in a blaze:

Big days!

April 15: Martini Diversity

You know you own when your glass is a cone

Some brand—never canned—a martini clone.

Cucumber, basil, pineapple, and pear—

Vermouth, in truth, is a martini bare.

Cavemen flavor their mixed drinks with a bone.


How do you know the true martini zone?

When mixing them up, ingredients flown

Should not include alien underwear

You know you own.


Proper martinis make the drinker moan;

They don’t grant powers or the senses hone.

They might confuse you, make you wonder where

You have been standing, so you’d best prepare,

And keep the flask near your drive-me-home phone—

You know you own.

April 14: Draining Color, A Writing Machine, Killer Eyes, More

The brightest colors are fading from view.

Let light diminish, the traitor, the creep.

I know what’s coming and know what to do.


Roses aren’t red, and violets aren’t blue;

Feel the lack trickle down into the deep.

The brightest colors are fading from view.


Now we have dreams we would vanish into,

Dreams where detail is a symbolic leap.

I know what’s coming and know what to do,


Restore my vision and restore my hue—

But I need solutions that I can keep.

The brightest colors are fading from view,


And there’s a part of me panicking, too.

When the path is clear, the cost can be steep.

I know what’s coming and know what to do.


Some blindness is permanent—this we knew.

True loss of color renders my life cheap.

The brightest colors are fading from view.

I know what’s coming and know what to do.


The word machine is dusty and broken,

Beneath your notice in times such as these,

Tapping out rhymes never to be spoken,

Writing in verse too old-fashioned to please.


Times such as these, there is one thing to do.

A sentimentalist might stop, object.

Discard old machines to buy something new!

Sentiment falls in line when we reflect.


I never wanted to write for the void,

But the void for me had another plan.

I produce tripe that cannot be enjoyed

And seems to fit with no present human.


The word machine’s junk and will disappear,

A discard far off where no one will hear.


I don’t know whether you’re aware or care,

But, you see, I’m not altogether there,

And whenever you think you see my face

You gaze bright-eyed into wide empty space

So deep and dark, it’s guaranteed to scare.


Get yourself ensnared in my blank-eyed stare

Because I’ve got one hundred more to share.

I’ll transform you, invisible, no trace—

I don’t know whether you’re aware.


Some of our kind announce our work with flair,

But exposure seems like a true nightmare.

I will be nobody’s number one case!

Morbid kids won’t write of my cold embrace.

I’m a blank-eyed drowner, not at all rare.

I don’t know whether you’re aware.


My cat’s in my business—she’s in control.

She conducts dealings—for leverage, cat soul.

She commands empires and buys red states whole;

I’m not sure how she votes—think she’s a mole?


She is quite pretty, and she’s awfully white—

Yes, getting older, but an awesome sight,

Most presidential when showing her might—

She’s not a metaphor—say that, she’ll bite.


She’s sweet and loving and curls in my lap;

No rank politician could do that crap.

Battling evil for her is a snap,

And she’ll get to it right after a nap.


She has rough edges, but she is loyal;

This cat is too indisputably royal.


Sometimes inspiration slows to a drip,

For the world’s garbage and gruesome to grip,

Like a slimy, refuse-filled, sunken ship

Under oceans that deny thirst a sip.


Who could create beauty when horror rules?

Barbers are fine, but beauticians are fools.

Frosting on shit won’t grow tasty in schools—

Beauty’s a puppet for when passion cools.


Leave off the frosting, and what have you got?

Another piece of unsaleable rot.

I could turn it ’round, but I’d rather not:

I’m not a happy-ending-brand robot.


Oops, I was wrong, or now I’m on the blink!

Everything’s wonderful! That’s what I think!


Give it up, folks. You love’em. You know’em.

It’s time for another flower poem.

In my case it’s because I’ve got photos

From gardens people who own my house rose,

But think of old Burns—that’s why folks grow’em!


Poems turned flowers to ways to show’em

You’d like to, you know, um, maybe blow’em—

Say it with flowers—no one feels like hos!

Give it up, folks!


If you’ve got seeds, you may want to sow’em,

But without romance, you might just stow’em.

You won’t seduce your love with your elbows;

Gladiolas need places that enclose;

Words are your colors; go out and throw’em!

Give it up, folks!


I’ve drawn so near the edge of breaking down,

I think this edge might be my kind of town,

Or maybe I’ve been a wreck already,

And I don’t remember being steady,

And I’m some joke, a dancing broken clown.


Can you think—ponder “losing” as a noun?

Like the maniac who has lost his crown:

It was his losing, but that is heady—

I’ve drawn so near.


A certain episode might gain renown,

But the edge I see involves straps of brown,

Huddled in a corner with a teddy,

Reduced to rubble, always pill-ready—

Now doesn’t that cliff make you broadly frown?

I’ve drawn so near.



Tiny holes

Entrance, exit

Abundant little ways

Dots for some artist

Come make art with my

Tiny holes

Big business




Tiny holes

In and out

Breathing through my pores

Awash in sweaty sunburned skin

They sting

Tiny holes

Breathing for some artist

Awash in big business

Come make art in and out

Traffic toll

Abundant sting

April 13: Mountains of Pills, A Tiny Lime, Summoning Dead Kids, etc.

Mountains of madness could not combat this:

Piles of pills pumped with much better wills,

Enough to trigger massive psychosis

Or to make sure an amped pill-taker chills.


Orange-ish brown bottles define my fate now,

Picked up with groceries, even by mail—

Clueless pharmacists pause to tell me how

To drink some water or simply inhale.


Pills like the rain make me sing in my dreams,

Not that they make the dreams any better—

They come down in torrents to muffle screams,

But they’ll not make me a pill regretter.


Collected mountains, crafted for the mind.

What have you got? Next I’m trying this kind!


Secret small lime, what’s on your agenda?

You hang out with flowers, stretched in sunlight.

Low-cal drinks might muddle you with Splenda,

But you’re in the shadows, planning a fight.


One thing is certain, you’re handsome and green,

Hanging there, innocent, clandestine juice:

You are the cutest lime I’ve ever seen;

I would use you for a full facial sluice.


I think you fight evil, blossoms and all;

Whatever else would a tiny lime do?

You will save the world from climatic fall

And spritz gin and tonic to get us through.


Lime on a lime tree, now, in early spring:

Round, ripe, and green, you can mean everything.


The lawn party faced frightful conditions.

Attendees all knew the details went wrong.

I erred to observe ghostly traditions.


Few of us came; we had bad positions,

Awkward conversation to get along.

The lawn party faced frightful conditions,


More so because of my strange ambitions,

Summon a spirit by playing a song—

I erred to observe ghostly traditions—


But if she would lose death’s inhibitions,

Come out to play like she might still belong…

The lawn party faced frightful conditions.


A dead child inspires prohibitions

At least with those whom I partied among:

I erred to observe ghostly traditions.


The guests were sacrificed—old religions—

My child returned to me, a demon throng.

The lawn party faced frightful conditions;

I erred to observe ghostly traditions.


People tend to get all wonky and freeze

When leaders mention WMDs.

They don’t seem to think of television

As the paramount tool of division.

They focus on whichever hell they please.


Chemicals, bio-agents—on the breeze—

Airwaves invisible—infinite sleaze—

Not all TV is worth our derision

(People tend to get all wonky).


We all fear the great mass-killing disease.

Perhaps like Black Death, it’s carried by fleas.

Each of us has to make a decision

About which weapon has most precision:

The one in your house or one overseas.

People tend to get all wonky!


Climbing up the wall: my trip I’ll complete!

There’s no way I fall, not with my webbed feet.

I’m escaping all, to a reserved seat—

Yes, I got a call, the big monster meet.


It’s a meet and greet, on the ripped flip-side;

The company’s neat, come from far and wide.

With hors d’oeuvres to eat, without human hide—

What types of good meat I need to elide.


I left; people cried; I did not believe.

Those who here abide offer no reprieve.

When a monster sighed, they gave much to grieve,

So now I’ve good-byed, too ready to leave.


Climbing up the wall: I will reach the top.

I say fuck you all, a force you can’t stop.


Tell me have you ever fallen askew?

It’s not a terrible tumble to do.

Shapes rearrange, flip, jump, and go awry:

You couldn’t tame them, and you shouldn’t try.

Shapes will avenge and come calling for you.


What kind of nonsense is this that I spew?

To endorse illness, to flee from who’s who?

Who wouldn’t see straight? There’s no reason why!

Tell me have you…?


Excess of straightness is boredom to rue.

Hold narrow vision until you turn blue.

Everyone wants to be a normal guy

Except most people, so that’s a damned lie.

Folks without boundaries are folks who flew.

Tell me have you?


Reading’s a villain, or so say the red—

Paper or pixels, wouldn’t be caught dead

Perusing opinion or worse—a fact—

A guy I like could be caught in the act—

So much unpleasantness could fill my head!


What about smart things our great leader said?

That’s what TV’s for, what Fox reported!

What? You saw Fox once, and you nearly yacked?

Reading’s a villain?


Reading got popular; bad dreams got fed;

Peasants and such became discontented.

The wronged had bloody vengeance to exact—

But some others left a peerage intact.

Either way, reading’s bad for the well-bred.

Reading’s a villain!


A space that will be, in futurity,

Dazzling, drinking—but delicately:

It can’t become too brash or too noisy;

Better, indeed, to maintain at empty.


Silent and soft, let it fill up with ghosts,

Whose manners pass expectations of hosts

And who spread cheer when they raise merry toasts

To those not dining, of whom they make boasts.


In such company we enter the past—

Though it was the future one moment last—

Now we’re together where nothing is fast,

Shimmering slowly with some Jazz Age cast.


As space that will be, as it was—in use;

Made to imbibe and unbalance, seduce.