May 4: Yours/Mine, Withholding, Grouchiness, more grouchiness…

Your downtown is not at all my downtown.

Yours is a sexy and exclusive clown;

Mine looks at more than black and white and brown.

Your downtown is not at all my downtown.


Your home feel is not at all my home feel.

Yours gets injections to create appeal;

Mine at times falls short, but at least it’s real.

Your home feel is not at all my home feel.


Your fairness is not at all my fairness.

Your ideals would profit from a huge mess;

Mine would find ways to help, a decent guess.

Your fairness is not at all my fairness.


You get the message: you can’t pass the buck.

This poem is about how much you suck.


Never explain your life to anyone,

And if someone asks, get set to have fun:

Make up some ripe lies—yes, spin out a tale

Of dones and didn’ts—don’t let them exhale!

Surely you’ve got a daydream that’ll stun.


Why not offer a good explanation

For all the craziest things that you’ve done?

Nobody’s going to roil, reel, or rail:

Never explain your life.


Maybe I’m all wrong: you’ve not yet begun

To really live, to have days in the sun.

Maybe you’ve got the bug, the banshee’s wail,

And you would shriek it all, every detail,

But you still shouldn’t—you’d best choose a gun.

Never explain your life.


Seamus awoke on the dull scratchy side,

Unimpressed by his own dry sentiment,

Burdened by grouchiness no one could hide,

Weighted by some grumps to his detriment.

Having lost track of all tact, which had died,

He called being awake experiment.


Much else in life, too, was experiment;

The trick to knowing was choosing a side—

Bully or bully—the real champs all died—

But the one you chose would show sentiment

That props you up to others’ detriment.

Thus the social experiment won’t hide.


But on days like these, Seamus would rather hide:

He’d not perform for an experiment

Or even process others’ detriment

Because his brain was deep on the fried side

And he’d have to scrounge for a sentiment

Even if he found out the whole world died.


Maybe overnight something inside died,

Some animate force you typically hide

Because it’s tender, loose with sentiment,

Prone to trust, and prone to experiment

With activities on the free wild side,

Freedom found to be of great detriment.


How much of this was fearing detriment,

Fearing what would be after something died,

Fearing having no one else on your side,

Fearing having no place left to hide,

Fearing love was a cold experiment,

Fearing the costs of sharing sentiment?


That seemed too grandiose a sentiment

For a morning of grouchy detriment

To no one but himself, experiment

To no one but himself, who may have died

To no one but himself, so he would hide

From no one but himself, on his own side.


Even the scratchiest sentiment died

With the detriment he would never hide

As he performed experiments inside.


Bad days begin with a bang, inner din

To wake all the demons feeding on sin

From past encounters with people I’ve known

In deepest mistakes, each one that I own,

And demons latch on to each with a grin.


If each demon could prick me with one pin

I’d end with ten million pricked deep within.

Like one accustomed, I would merely groan:

Bad days begin.


I prattle of demons, saved in a bin,

Barrel of monkeys, drowning in fine gin—

I seek the treatment for seeds that I’ve sown—

Drinking and smoking won’t do it alone—

How do you tend what goes under the skin?

Bad days begin.


Ansel the Anvil goes down to the line.

He dashes enemies’ brains every time.

Dressed up for tennis with racket to mime,

He serves up bombs knocked from heights near divine.


Coifed by professionals, he looks quite fine

Drinking his tonic and gin with a lime

Behind a shower of self-shielding grime

That basically serves as a quarantine.


His motivation’s a slippery force,

As he only takes orders from Ollies.

He doesn’t seek fame or care for money

But from reality wants a divorce

To escape humankind’s many follies—

Thus Ollie science is good as honey.


This is the quiet that goes forever.

Nothing will ever work out in the end.

The time for moving was then—now, never.


The wind had your back—swoosh, like a feather—

But in a pillow in stasis you blend.

This is the quiet that goes on forever.


You have brought a map—well, aren’t you clever!

Didn’t they tell you that paper will rend?

The time for moving was then—now, never.


You and your pals will make it together?

How often you see the back of a friend!

This is the quiet that goes on forever:


The words hold you in place like a tether,

Blocking each meaning you think, you intend—

The time for moving was then—now, never—


Never to be, forever to sever

From the relations you couldn’t defend—

This is the quiet that goes on forever—

The time for moving was then, now, never.


A world that got stuck with no solutions,

Rising tide levels, global pollutions

Rewriting keywords in constitutions

With increased profits, low contributions—


For the rich folk have destroyed everything.

Mermaids have been canned; that’s fried dodo wing.

They don’t care what’s dead; they don’t feel the sting

Of the dreaded apocalypse they bring.


When it’s us or them, we vote suicide.

We’re so darned clever—check out our huge pride.

Cheer America! Who’s on Russia’s side?

We screwed ourselves because rich people lied.


Hey-ho, it’s a-go, the end-of-world show!

You wanted to know. You do. What a blow!

May 3: Genre Frontiers, Gnomes, Lunatic Fringe, etc.

Changes in genre take new perspective

And might require a true directive

From a bright muse whose strength I accuse

Of making me the type of guy to abuse

Formula so displayed it’s reflective.


Don’t get me wrong—this is no invective

Against any quick turns, introspective,

Or likely to feel like one to accuse

Changes in genre.


This sharp turn has made writing more active

And my characters much more attractive

With strings of battles they will win or lose,

Flashbacks and foreshadows bound to confuse,

I’ve not been farther from science factive:

Changes in genre.


Gnomes in the nethers are knocking away.

They open your mind like a heavy book.

Gnomes in the nethers say have a nice day.


They’re pretty friendly—well, in their own way.

They get in your eyes, share your mode of look.

Gnomes in the nethers are knocking away


Because down inside we know you’re kray-kray.

Inside the old bin we’ll make you a nook.

Gnomes in the nethers say have a nice day


As they get inside you like a cheap lay,

Swoop into your brain, like it’s on their hook:

Gnomes in the nethers are knocking away!


They are stoic creatures and hard to sway:

They lead you about by stick or by crook.

Gnomes in the nethers say have a nice day


As they insist that your mood not decay.

Ingratitude’s something gnomes will not brook.

Gnomes in the nethers are knocking away.

Gnomes in the nethers say, “Have a nice day!”


Lunatic fringe is a knitting mistake.

It simply ruins each scarf that you make.

Wear it outside in the sun, and you’ll bake.

Say it’s a fashion; they’ll call you a fake.


Lunatic fringe has no grasp on the facts.

It hears itself, feels surprised, and reacts.

It flies in freefall, which never retracts.

It bounces off real: that’s how it attracts.


Lunatic fringe decorates power’s halls.

It wants to preach hate; it wants to build walls.

It wants to make sure competence means balls

And police who’s who inside bathroom stalls.


Lunatic fringe is a fabric that kills:

Why does it occupy our knitting skills?


In each of our lives, there comes an hour

When we have need of more firepower.

We see all our enemies in a line,

And we need action of blasting design,

Something to make them bend knee and cower.


Now’s no time for some peace-loving flower!

Find caches of ammo—and devour!

Recall that guns are how the West works fine

In each of our lives.


Somehow when things go far south of sour—

Everything’s blown to bits—lawmen glower—

You know it still wouldn’t be asinine

To blast your way out, resist, undermine,

But know that failures always will tower

In each of our lives.


If I’d rely on me, that’d be why

I’d lied to the ones who on me rely,

For truth’s when what’s better’s always a lie,

As counterfactuals open an eye,


Which is as, say, presently, with a sigh,

But rely on me to chat like I’m high,

Carrying on ’til you just want to die—

Really, I should let this go, shouldn’t I?


Letting go isn’t so easy, you know.

It’s more of a pageant, less of a show.

Full of formulae about letting go,

They’re numbers, you know, you go, and it’s so.


If you relied on this poem’s about,

You might go with it, end up hollowed out.

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.