The First Fly


The fly trots along the dry cement yard.
I can smell it, albeit where is the rot?

The first rain lives its previous life.
The river ferries 
the soporific workers from this to that. 

Blink, and I see the black dot buzzing; 
blink, and I see nothing
except the bubbles born on the summertime eyelids. 

Fortune Cookie Pants

 
I had this idea once
that I would 

put random messages
written on tiny strips of paper

into the pockets
of pants for sale at JC Penny’s,

turning them into
fortune cookie pants

or some such thing.

The highly sensitive spark


I am a mournful-sublime spark
gentle such elysian seraphic wings
a glimmer that flies above the delicate homeland
I the twinkling come from balmy Luther's stars
an orb which is enchanting-comfortable

the paradise full glitter persists not far from me
the lights are hanging – a proto-marvelous seal
I am in love in the august magic mirror

the nicely sensitive native country
wrapped in my glow of sparkles
I delight in the warmth of the eternity
because my guardian angel flies for the dreams' sake
infinitely far

I will become now a bewitched moon
a superb-svelte spark-like boat
that brings muse-like dreameries
in the angelic worlds

I am never blazing fiercely
such a blistering purgatory
I am glinting only sky-high
I dream of the paradise
I am floating because of the enchantments
and I am sending poesy alway *(ever)

I am enchanting genial glimmers
pending in the ontology of daintiness
I am going to become the purest metaphysics
I luxuriate in the ethics of ancient times

I want to be dead by no means
ad infinitum to dream – to recall the dream
not wrangle with the dreaming sparks

dreamy – enchanted
eternal – fallen in love
invented – delighted in the being

leisurely home land giddy with sparkles
tarry dreaming and musing in the delight-times of muses!

Priming

 
Sure,
I tried
to write
a few novels
when I was
younger,
all of them
shit.
Hopefully,
I get
better.
The content
wasn’t bad;
the writing
was.
Or maybe
both of it
was.
Maybe
I just
wasn’t ready.
It takes
a while
to prime
a writer.
Yrs.
Hell,
sometimes
a lifetime.
If you’re
a serious writer,
you try
to beat
your lifetime
and get out
some decent enough
words
before
you croak.
That’s what
I’m after.
These poems help,
a little. 

        Dr Mohamed

When I was taken
to hospital
with cirrhosis of
the liver.

The first person
I saw was Dr
Mohamed. After
examining me,
and asking a lot
of questions
he told me that my
liver was in a bad
way.

I was really ill
I was really scared.

I asked him
" Is this going
to kill me ? "

" Not this time. "
He answered.

" It's like you've
driven right up to
the edge of the cliff
but you haven't gone
over the edge, yet. "

As I was leaving to
go to wait to be
admitted to a ward.

His last words to
me were 

" You do know that
you've picked the
longest, most painful
way to kill yourself ? "

That shocked me.

I thought I was
drinking to stop
my depressive
thoughts.

I thought I was
drinking to keep
from killing myself.

Q&A


Does poetry
pay?
asked
a faceless freak.
I guffawed.
Holy shit!
Not unless
you’re
Amanda Gorman!
Who’s that?
Look her up.
How long
does it take
to learn
how to write
poetry?
whined
another voice.
A lifetime.
Must poetry
rhyme?
Not when
you’re drinking
wine.
How come
none of
your poetry
has form?
Form’s
not as important
as rhythm.
What do
you think
makes
good poetry?
Bite.
I maintained
one-word answers
from there;
it wore them
down.
I had to
make a
fast break
for the
liquor store
closing at 8.
We made it. 

St. Patrick’s Day

A wave of gloom and terror
Quickly passed throughout
The land of the Leprechaun
When it was whispered
That, on this St. Patrick’s Day,
Santa was coming to town.
Everyone has heard that
He favors the little ones.
Rumor has it that he can
Savagely devour thirty elves
In one sitting.  Yum.



Home Security

Thefts in the neighborhood.
Must secure house from robbers.
All the locks have been changed.
Shotguns rigged up at doors with
Trip wires carefully tied to triggers.
Vicious dog, suspected of rabies,
Brought home from the pound
And beaten over and over to
Ensure his raw savageness. Now,
If I can only get in my house.

L

One two to five six done twelve dexies by midnight on I am flying 
like a vulture combing land over Atlantic seas PI see your great 
head stuck in the pillow face covered by feathers how 

I love your hair sticking out dreadies no comb put through it in 
months put pen to paper let the good times roll now
 
I am really vibing got the dexies working ‘til after twelve midday 
yeah awake wide eyed child of your friend’s house we’re covered 
til winter summer close by we will go swimming in LA sands 
beachfront bulk great hilltop.

It’s time to drive to New Orleans tonight let’s get pilled and hit the booze joints with some cool jazz playing I’m a coming!

MCDONALD’S

 
That invincibility
After scoring:
So impervious
That you don’t
Think twice
About leaving
Your Pontiac
In front of a
Hydrant,
While you rush into
Wherever-you-know-
you-can-use-the-bathroom.

A few places
You’ve discovered,
But tried and true
Is the McDonald’s on
First and 23rd:
Commodious,
A locking door;
A haven—
Even if piss
Puddles the floor
And vomit
Infects the air.

So useless
Is every other place—
Everything, in fact—
That this room’s
An ethereality.

Then,
Briskly walking out,
Unlit cigarette
Between fingers,
Touching your lighter;
Outside,
That first drag’s
Majestical, too;
And look:
No ticket.

RODEO CLOWN  

They got me to ride a bull in a West Texas rodeo!
I fell off and broke my head;
Took all of about a second and a half.
The son-of-a-gun would’ve liked to kill me dead.
So I decided right then and there, that if I was going be in the rodeo,
A clown was what I was gonna be.
I always thought I was kinda funny anyway.
Driving around the country telling all my jokes,
To all kinds of spectating folks.
Paint on my face, my barrel in place.
I always feel pretty safe hanging out with the pick-up man.
Pretty much livin’ in my minivan.
Trying to help the bullfighters with props made of old used mops.
Doing rope tricks, and trying to impress all the chicks.
Having a lot of fun. 
Then when the rodeo is done,
I head to the bar, no paint on my face,
And nobody knows who I am;
‘Cause I’m not a damn bull rider, just a silly old clown.

 
10/13/22