The Brazilian Cliff Diver
"There is no bottom to this."
Kim Addonizio's "Flood"
He dove hard and fast,
unlike other men,
and found the deepest part
so quick it took her breath away.
Some things always last,
and some go very, very fast.
She knew him when she saw his eyes across the barroom
and in those eyes, that tender crust of salt and crayfish ooze
dried to a golden crystal;
just there, at the end of the bar,
drinking a white liqueur--sipping it almost--
she knew then, just what he could do.
Remembering his brown body as he stood
rigid, then like a salmon caught mid-leap
a flutter of movement, and then the jump
the cliff's edge falling away
the turn, the arch,
but not too much--
and then the penetration,
surfaces slide aside
like the opennings of fleshy gills
rhythmically contracting waves
as he disappears within
the waters
and then the wait.
What would he find there, once he was inside?
What would be there, in the silence
and the crabshell ooze?
More colors than a gutted trout?
More tastes than at Captain Nemo's last buffet?
More deepening pressure than the weight of Earth's first ocean?
Who can say,
but at that moment, finally, his body twisted, began the turn,
and rose up from the depths.
Up, up he rose, past the thickness of the silt,
past the lounge room of some lost Titanic,
past the long-lost condominiums of Atlantis,
past the crabs, with their pale diaphanous shells,
past the scaly sea-worts, scarred and burned,
past the Korean pool-boy's form-
fitted Speedos, lost once in the undertow.
Up, up,
past the sleeping fish
the cliff diver rose,
like a Japanese pearl diver coming up for air
and there she was--
he found her like a catfish flopping on a table
and nothing needed to be said.
Even though her Portuguese was faulty,
his English was broken, barely knew a word,
things passed between them, like electric eels,
and cunningly they learned.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Friday, August 31, 2007
The Conversion
The Conversion
"Who seeks the other color...."
James Dickey's "Slave Quarters"
"Welcome to Vacation Bable School!" she said.
Our son fell in with the other little fellers,
and soon was taught the "Jeezus luvs me" song
along with others.
I knew what it meant. I had been this way before
like Bobby Frost, stopping in the winter wood to
see the snow fall. It was the inevitability of
the thing, growin' up in the Bable Belt,
to learn these songs.
What did it mean in the larger scheme of things
if little Tony came home, a sayin'
"Let's paint a picture for Jeezus" or
"Let's read a Bable story for Jeezus" or
"Let's find out what Billy, nex' door, is doin'
for Jeeeezus".....
Sometimes "Let's wash yer ears for Jeezus" worked
pretty well, I think. But soon I felt guilty
as Hell for usin' Jeezus to twist things my way.
I knew I was a minority of one,
but I was caught, like everyman in Georgia,
by the easy way it slips across your tongue:
"Let's do the dishes for Jeezus"
"Let's lose weight for Jeezus"
and even:
"Let's make a baby for Jeezus."
It got worse.
Soon my wife was sayin':
"Let's clean out the fridge for Jeezus"
"Let's take out the garbage for Jeezus"
"Let's change the oil in the car for Jeezus"
It seems like Jeezus has an awful lot of stuff He wants done--
at least Moses thought so--like votin' agin' Gun Control,
and Homos, and rubbers in the schools.
My wife & son & I got tired of doin' stuff for Jeezus.
And then, one day, the Church Elders came by the house.
They saw the scragglee yard filled with crabgrass,
They saw the debris of unburned bushes, they saw the
unknownly evil trees, the decaying leaves,
left behind here to pile up (I think) since before The Fall
And they judged me and found me wanting!
But all those things grew for Jeezus! I said to them.
I was called a heretic, a cynic, a humanist!
"TO THINK THAT THE GRASS GROWS FOR JEEZUS
OR THAT THE BUSHES BLOOM, OR THE LEAVES FALL--
ALL THIS HAPPENS FOR JEEZUS? NOT IN GEORGIA, IT DON'T!"
And then they left.
But who the Hell then makes all this stuff grow so fast
like this? I said to myself, and then, to my wife:
"Call the church and tell Jeezus to come over here
and rake up all these damn leaves of His
that He's let drop all over my yard!"
The wife sent me on a walk, to cool off she said and think about
committing my life a little less fully to Jeezus.
I walked downtown in the cold wintery day, past the old
railroad tracks, to a tired part of town that Jeezus
had let go downhill a bit. I got cold, and soon I was
standin' in front of an old theater marquee that said:
HEAT
So I paid my six dollars and went inside to get warm.
As I slipped into the worn velvet seat (the popcorn machine
was broke, they said) I let my eyes wander over the too
dark room, and saw the dozen or so fellow travelers
waiting in their seats--not tense so much as tensed
like springs that had been bent so much they broke.
Soon the projector light appeared and with it the muscular bodies
of young Italian men--a gangsta film I think it was
with mobsters and big-breasted molls--a Revenge Tragedy--it was,
some long lost descendent of Hamlet leached onto 35mm film.
The hero was a handsome Hispanic goodly fellow
who fell to his work like Jeezus Himself was
prodding him to action; or else Shakespeare who said:
"Screw your courage to the sticking place!"
and so screw he did, and all for Jeezus....
Soon I found myself saying, quietly, then louder:
"Squeeze it for Jeezus"
"Lick that fig for Jeezus"
"Ride 'em like a cowboy, Jeezus"
And then the theater owner, looking like Sargent Garcia,
Came to my seat and said,
"He is not Heysoos, his name is Stephen Saint Croix."
Apologizing, I soon returned to the show:
"Suck that bacuda, for Saint Croix"
"Lick that ol' conch, Saint Croix"
"Take it like a choir boy, for Saint Croix...."
And no sooner than the words sprung from my mouth
I knew: I had become a born-again cathar-lick!
Like Paul on the Road to Damascus
(not a Hope-Crosby film, by the way)
or Cardinal Newman, stopping to visit the Folies Bergere
on the road to Notre Dame, I was struck
down by my New Belief. Converted from my firm
adherence to the Jeezus of the gospels,
I was now transformed by a new renewal of faith!
No longer one of His Elect,
I chose to worship at the footstool of His truly Erect.
In that dark theater, among the old-maid popcorn kernels,
I fell to my knees and prayed to my beautiful Saint Croix,
and then & there
I was shot through & through
with the lightning of his sacred Thor-like hammer.
In the darkness I was anointed like a lover.
I was conceived from the beauty of her black belly.
As the brightness of her smile projected above me on the screen--
I was bathed in the whited charisma of his blessed tool.
Saint Croix is much less difficult and rigid taskmaster.
He is hard, but forgiving, too.
Like Saint Anthony and the blessed beasts,
I soon found forgiveness in the hardness of his holy rule.
And now each year we pilgrimage to the island of Saint Croix,
blessed with his name, washed with the warm caribbean winds,
and take his holy sacrament in this church by the sea.
Like the native Crucians, I embrace the holy cross.
Like the Rosy Crucians, I sunburn lightly as a penance.
Like the Virgin Islands, I am reborn each day at dawn. And
as one newly christened, with each new "maarn in"
I give good Jesus with the warmest latitude.
"Who seeks the other color...."
James Dickey's "Slave Quarters"
"Welcome to Vacation Bable School!" she said.
Our son fell in with the other little fellers,
and soon was taught the "Jeezus luvs me" song
along with others.
I knew what it meant. I had been this way before
like Bobby Frost, stopping in the winter wood to
see the snow fall. It was the inevitability of
the thing, growin' up in the Bable Belt,
to learn these songs.
What did it mean in the larger scheme of things
if little Tony came home, a sayin'
"Let's paint a picture for Jeezus" or
"Let's read a Bable story for Jeezus" or
"Let's find out what Billy, nex' door, is doin'
for Jeeeezus".....
Sometimes "Let's wash yer ears for Jeezus" worked
pretty well, I think. But soon I felt guilty
as Hell for usin' Jeezus to twist things my way.
I knew I was a minority of one,
but I was caught, like everyman in Georgia,
by the easy way it slips across your tongue:
"Let's do the dishes for Jeezus"
"Let's lose weight for Jeezus"
and even:
"Let's make a baby for Jeezus."
It got worse.
Soon my wife was sayin':
"Let's clean out the fridge for Jeezus"
"Let's take out the garbage for Jeezus"
"Let's change the oil in the car for Jeezus"
It seems like Jeezus has an awful lot of stuff He wants done--
at least Moses thought so--like votin' agin' Gun Control,
and Homos, and rubbers in the schools.
My wife & son & I got tired of doin' stuff for Jeezus.
And then, one day, the Church Elders came by the house.
They saw the scragglee yard filled with crabgrass,
They saw the debris of unburned bushes, they saw the
unknownly evil trees, the decaying leaves,
left behind here to pile up (I think) since before The Fall
And they judged me and found me wanting!
But all those things grew for Jeezus! I said to them.
I was called a heretic, a cynic, a humanist!
"TO THINK THAT THE GRASS GROWS FOR JEEZUS
OR THAT THE BUSHES BLOOM, OR THE LEAVES FALL--
ALL THIS HAPPENS FOR JEEZUS? NOT IN GEORGIA, IT DON'T!"
And then they left.
But who the Hell then makes all this stuff grow so fast
like this? I said to myself, and then, to my wife:
"Call the church and tell Jeezus to come over here
and rake up all these damn leaves of His
that He's let drop all over my yard!"
The wife sent me on a walk, to cool off she said and think about
committing my life a little less fully to Jeezus.
I walked downtown in the cold wintery day, past the old
railroad tracks, to a tired part of town that Jeezus
had let go downhill a bit. I got cold, and soon I was
standin' in front of an old theater marquee that said:
HEAT
So I paid my six dollars and went inside to get warm.
As I slipped into the worn velvet seat (the popcorn machine
was broke, they said) I let my eyes wander over the too
dark room, and saw the dozen or so fellow travelers
waiting in their seats--not tense so much as tensed
like springs that had been bent so much they broke.
Soon the projector light appeared and with it the muscular bodies
of young Italian men--a gangsta film I think it was
with mobsters and big-breasted molls--a Revenge Tragedy--it was,
some long lost descendent of Hamlet leached onto 35mm film.
The hero was a handsome Hispanic goodly fellow
who fell to his work like Jeezus Himself was
prodding him to action; or else Shakespeare who said:
"Screw your courage to the sticking place!"
and so screw he did, and all for Jeezus....
Soon I found myself saying, quietly, then louder:
"Squeeze it for Jeezus"
"Lick that fig for Jeezus"
"Ride 'em like a cowboy, Jeezus"
And then the theater owner, looking like Sargent Garcia,
Came to my seat and said,
"He is not Heysoos, his name is Stephen Saint Croix."
Apologizing, I soon returned to the show:
"Suck that bacuda, for Saint Croix"
"Lick that ol' conch, Saint Croix"
"Take it like a choir boy, for Saint Croix...."
And no sooner than the words sprung from my mouth
I knew: I had become a born-again cathar-lick!
Like Paul on the Road to Damascus
(not a Hope-Crosby film, by the way)
or Cardinal Newman, stopping to visit the Folies Bergere
on the road to Notre Dame, I was struck
down by my New Belief. Converted from my firm
adherence to the Jeezus of the gospels,
I was now transformed by a new renewal of faith!
No longer one of His Elect,
I chose to worship at the footstool of His truly Erect.
In that dark theater, among the old-maid popcorn kernels,
I fell to my knees and prayed to my beautiful Saint Croix,
and then & there
I was shot through & through
with the lightning of his sacred Thor-like hammer.
In the darkness I was anointed like a lover.
I was conceived from the beauty of her black belly.
As the brightness of her smile projected above me on the screen--
I was bathed in the whited charisma of his blessed tool.
Saint Croix is much less difficult and rigid taskmaster.
He is hard, but forgiving, too.
Like Saint Anthony and the blessed beasts,
I soon found forgiveness in the hardness of his holy rule.
And now each year we pilgrimage to the island of Saint Croix,
blessed with his name, washed with the warm caribbean winds,
and take his holy sacrament in this church by the sea.
Like the native Crucians, I embrace the holy cross.
Like the Rosy Crucians, I sunburn lightly as a penance.
Like the Virgin Islands, I am reborn each day at dawn. And
as one newly christened, with each new "maarn in"
I give good Jesus with the warmest latitude.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
The Breath of Life
The Breath of Life
"... and hold her / till she is awake again."
Eric Dutton's "Staying Married"
After church
we lie together on the narrow futon
and I am wrapped around you
like a thin tree snake holding a pregnant dove--
the look of peace in your eyes
is so gentle, your soul so clear that
the tears come to my eyes
again.
It must have been like this
the first time. It must have been
like this when the Preacher, standing
in the shallow waters, put his giant's
hand across your nose & mouth, and
lowered you into some rural southern
river. You looked up at him, through
the dark water, even though he said to "shut
your eyes" as he pushed you under.
When you were lifted up again, your
nipples were full and hard from
the cold water and the rush of blood
to the vital sacred parts, which washed
your sins away; and the rigor of mortality
transformed you into what you are today.
Your eyes are clear again.
The white shift you wear, for purity's sake,
is pushed up, just as my black shirt, belt &
pants are loose and twisted aside, so that
simple coitus is easy. It seems we have lain
this way for hours, maybe we have been
always joined this way as lovers.
You move, slightly, to show you are
ready again. Alert to your signal, my
body grows hard again inside you and
my righteous hand moves up to your face.
My left hand, beneath your head, wraps
itself in your long auburn hair and I brace
myself for the coming struggle. Your right arm
is pinioned helpless beneath my body and your left
is not strong enough to save you from what
is about to happen (and we both know
this already, from severe practice).
The scratches on my face prove this:
Death can be relentless in his love.
Your eyes have now gone hard & lost
the look of purity, and instead the gaze
of human lust has taken hold of your soul.
You must be punished this way,
again and again.
The missionary position seems
suited to this, for I am on a sacred mission
where my hard thrusts send you again and again
below the water's surface, like a witch
tied on a dunking pole. I sometimes feel
like a murderer pushing a corpse below
the water with a stick, as the dying
flesh gives way, again and again, to each
thrust of the stick.
My muscles, every sinew, goes hard
and taut, braced for this task. And your body
fights back against this cruel fate, the
ignorant lower reptilian brain struggles
for some tiny breath of life. The moments pass
and soon your eyes grow dim again, your voice
muffled from the struggle with my blunt hand.
Your body, wet with a cold sweat, goes
slack against my starched cotton shirt.
You feel dead against me, and the weakness
fills my eyes with tears for what is lost.
I remove my hand. Soon I feel the faint intake
of breath and the barely muffled sob.
As your eyes open again, I feel this
rush of joy, knowing that we will stay this
way forever. Yet, I do not leave you here
alone for more than a few days at a time
because I do not want you, desperate for absolution,
to try something like this without me.
Accidents happen. And sometimes
  without possibility of redemption.
"... and hold her / till she is awake again."
Eric Dutton's "Staying Married"
After church
we lie together on the narrow futon
and I am wrapped around you
like a thin tree snake holding a pregnant dove--
the look of peace in your eyes
is so gentle, your soul so clear that
the tears come to my eyes
again.
It must have been like this
the first time. It must have been
like this when the Preacher, standing
in the shallow waters, put his giant's
hand across your nose & mouth, and
lowered you into some rural southern
river. You looked up at him, through
the dark water, even though he said to "shut
your eyes" as he pushed you under.
When you were lifted up again, your
nipples were full and hard from
the cold water and the rush of blood
to the vital sacred parts, which washed
your sins away; and the rigor of mortality
transformed you into what you are today.
Your eyes are clear again.
The white shift you wear, for purity's sake,
is pushed up, just as my black shirt, belt &
pants are loose and twisted aside, so that
simple coitus is easy. It seems we have lain
this way for hours, maybe we have been
always joined this way as lovers.
You move, slightly, to show you are
ready again. Alert to your signal, my
body grows hard again inside you and
my righteous hand moves up to your face.
My left hand, beneath your head, wraps
itself in your long auburn hair and I brace
myself for the coming struggle. Your right arm
is pinioned helpless beneath my body and your left
is not strong enough to save you from what
is about to happen (and we both know
this already, from severe practice).
The scratches on my face prove this:
Death can be relentless in his love.
Your eyes have now gone hard & lost
the look of purity, and instead the gaze
of human lust has taken hold of your soul.
You must be punished this way,
again and again.
The missionary position seems
suited to this, for I am on a sacred mission
where my hard thrusts send you again and again
below the water's surface, like a witch
tied on a dunking pole. I sometimes feel
like a murderer pushing a corpse below
the water with a stick, as the dying
flesh gives way, again and again, to each
thrust of the stick.
My muscles, every sinew, goes hard
and taut, braced for this task. And your body
fights back against this cruel fate, the
ignorant lower reptilian brain struggles
for some tiny breath of life. The moments pass
and soon your eyes grow dim again, your voice
muffled from the struggle with my blunt hand.
Your body, wet with a cold sweat, goes
slack against my starched cotton shirt.
You feel dead against me, and the weakness
fills my eyes with tears for what is lost.
I remove my hand. Soon I feel the faint intake
of breath and the barely muffled sob.
As your eyes open again, I feel this
rush of joy, knowing that we will stay this
way forever. Yet, I do not leave you here
alone for more than a few days at a time
because I do not want you, desperate for absolution,
to try something like this without me.
Accidents happen. And sometimes
  without possibility of redemption.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Immense gains on frankfurt!
Recently I was invited to a reading of three
poets on three consecutive nights. Alice Fulton,
who has won numerous awards for her poetry
was the reader on the third night. After a
glowingly colorful introduction, Fulton launched into
her reading. I wish I could get that hour back.
As best I can tell, Fulton is a dictionary poet.
That means she takes the dictionary and looks
up words and then free associates to get her
verse (actually, she must use a philosophical
dictionary). I tried to write an actually parody
of her poetry, but the stuff is so empty that it
was hard to do that. So instead I’m creating
a “found poem” made up of text from emails.
This seems appropriate—text created by one
computer to fool another computer into thinking
that this is a real message. But it is, of course,
not a real message, but a simulation.
---------------------------------------------
Immense gains on frankfurt!
“the new moon is just a luminous zilch.”
Alice Fulton’s “Snow Kiln”
“If you will get banged
by your pennis with mistress?”
And they shall which he cometh with the ram for.
Then Afterward he would abound more of these chief, of the Lord that Died. Then came up to those who sought the words of God, It is unclean on all that ye therefore have dominion, The cave and aloes, and I thou and he hath given frozen: Higher. And sinful flesh that wicked children of Madon, and no peace and thou And the Lord grant you and wept sore broken brought unto thee neither Shall be not thou. And put their tents but O thou here we may write blessed is accomplished
No surprise that the signs of social fracture and growing dissatisfaction are plain to see. One in nine children is living with just one parent, relatives or a distant neighbour. Yet the sharp rift between left and right in France remains deep in the French psyche. Each day a child under the age of seven is abandoned in Moldova.
The result has been 25 years of meaningless hypocrisy. So at the moment there are 12 candidates, all of whom have won the written backing of 500 elected politicians in order to stand.
She has a small scrap of land where she grows vegetables to feed herself. Couple this with an economy that has been misfiring and it is easy to see why France is in such a deep hole, desperately looking for solutions. I often hear many negative comments about France and Europe. Who appeals most to ethnic minority voters? He was featured chatting, arguing at a factory gate with a couple of people and it worked as an engaging piece of TV.
I was channel-hopping when I came across a series of short, and quite snappy, party political broadcasts following one after the other. Mr Le Pen has rather simpler ideas on the far right - get rid of immigrants, and you get rid of the problem.
Laurie gave her a glance of filial respect and love as he replied. “you hate the thought of it?" said jack, as he was giving jill her early walk "oh, yes, pitch about like nutshells and when he couldn't have one sister he took the other, and was happy." nice to hide the scar on his forehead, eyes closed in spite of herself and she forgot where she was and fell among with satisfaction at the prospect before them.
¡¡i played at hot cockles, last petite redhaired girl banged two huge black cocks << tiny teen babe gets pounded !
poets on three consecutive nights. Alice Fulton,
who has won numerous awards for her poetry
was the reader on the third night. After a
glowingly colorful introduction, Fulton launched into
her reading. I wish I could get that hour back.
As best I can tell, Fulton is a dictionary poet.
That means she takes the dictionary and looks
up words and then free associates to get her
verse (actually, she must use a philosophical
dictionary). I tried to write an actually parody
of her poetry, but the stuff is so empty that it
was hard to do that. So instead I’m creating
a “found poem” made up of text from emails.
This seems appropriate—text created by one
computer to fool another computer into thinking
that this is a real message. But it is, of course,
not a real message, but a simulation.
---------------------------------------------
Immense gains on frankfurt!
“the new moon is just a luminous zilch.”
Alice Fulton’s “Snow Kiln”
“If you will get banged
by your pennis with mistress?”
And they shall which he cometh with the ram for.
Then Afterward he would abound more of these chief, of the Lord that Died. Then came up to those who sought the words of God, It is unclean on all that ye therefore have dominion, The cave and aloes, and I thou and he hath given frozen: Higher. And sinful flesh that wicked children of Madon, and no peace and thou And the Lord grant you and wept sore broken brought unto thee neither Shall be not thou. And put their tents but O thou here we may write blessed is accomplished
No surprise that the signs of social fracture and growing dissatisfaction are plain to see. One in nine children is living with just one parent, relatives or a distant neighbour. Yet the sharp rift between left and right in France remains deep in the French psyche. Each day a child under the age of seven is abandoned in Moldova.
The result has been 25 years of meaningless hypocrisy. So at the moment there are 12 candidates, all of whom have won the written backing of 500 elected politicians in order to stand.
She has a small scrap of land where she grows vegetables to feed herself. Couple this with an economy that has been misfiring and it is easy to see why France is in such a deep hole, desperately looking for solutions. I often hear many negative comments about France and Europe. Who appeals most to ethnic minority voters? He was featured chatting, arguing at a factory gate with a couple of people and it worked as an engaging piece of TV.
I was channel-hopping when I came across a series of short, and quite snappy, party political broadcasts following one after the other. Mr Le Pen has rather simpler ideas on the far right - get rid of immigrants, and you get rid of the problem.
Laurie gave her a glance of filial respect and love as he replied. “you hate the thought of it?" said jack, as he was giving jill her early walk "oh, yes, pitch about like nutshells and when he couldn't have one sister he took the other, and was happy." nice to hide the scar on his forehead, eyes closed in spite of herself and she forgot where she was and fell among with satisfaction at the prospect before them.
¡¡i played at hot cockles, last petite redhaired girl banged two huge black cocks << tiny teen babe gets pounded !
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
meet Bob Dole....
The Love Song of Bob Dole
& "The Greatest Generation"
"I was shy and tender...."
Allen Ginsberg's "You Know What I'm Saying?"
ashes to ashes, dicks to dust
it takes a pill to stoke our lust
& even if Libby gets skin like leather
all us old farts stick together
we fought the war again' the Nazi
and even beat the goddam Japanee
so we could wear coats made of pleather
that's why us old farts stick together
bald old heads & baggy old skin
cancerous prostate & saggy chin
wearing Ben-Gay in hot sticky weather
makes us old farts stick together
& when we go to His throne on Judgement Day
we'll all be singin' "i did it my waayyy...."
& "The Greatest Generation"
"I was shy and tender...."
Allen Ginsberg's "You Know What I'm Saying?"
ashes to ashes, dicks to dust
it takes a pill to stoke our lust
& even if Libby gets skin like leather
all us old farts stick together
we fought the war again' the Nazi
and even beat the goddam Japanee
so we could wear coats made of pleather
that's why us old farts stick together
bald old heads & baggy old skin
cancerous prostate & saggy chin
wearing Ben-Gay in hot sticky weather
makes us old farts stick together
& when we go to His throne on Judgement Day
we'll all be singin' "i did it my waayyy...."
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
The Earl of Sandwich is a Glistening God
The Earl of Sandwich is a Glistening God
"We're in too deep...."
Jorie Graham's "Prayer"
I met two salmon once
in a motel room near Troy, Nebraska--
glimmering and slippery they were,
as tasty as the finest eels, brown and golden
in a frying pan.
The first lay upside down & backwards, while the other
stood beside the bed--patiently waiting--quick & glittering
from the wetness of my mind, where it had dipped into
and found my secret (as I knelt on the bed in prayer):
I have this great emptiness, deep within me,
which needs to be filled.
Nothing else matters.
They were not endangered, not by me at least;
I had never killed anything that way
(except perhaps that time I morally
wounded a dwarf mongoose in Rhode Island,
and I gagged once on an albino python in Montreal)
I hold within so many things--
one size fits all, but I am not unquenchable.
Plunging upwards, the upturned salmon swam against the stream
he found the running bitter waters
he found the deepest part, too sweet,
he found the quickening tissues of life's first ocean
and mouthed with his ovule lips the words, words, words
first spoken by The Serpent in The Garden
and felt the knot--a bit off from what he thought--
but truly there.
I felt his thirst unloosened by the in-betweeness
that I shared--I named the two salmon: Far Better
and Four Worse.
Deeper, deeper, into less and less--their minds unfastened
with a quickening gait.
The smooth surfaces of things split, rejoined, and split again
the timeless motions, the quickening, the race, ...
Too deep? he said,
like the bluebird's beak
lowering the early worm into the open gaping mouth--
like the yawning chick, my blindness was all peripheral
a matter of perspective, the immanent domain of trousers
snaking their way edgewise into the gullet of the opening maw,
like soiled clothes touching the edge of an overstuffed hamper.
Bluish and empurpled veins stand out on the salmon, too
tight skin, as my kisses land on every inch of the seeable
translucent self. Meanwhile, the upturned salmon, bare and bony,
feeds on small puddles of snowmelt, lapping up the miles.
With his endless inwardness, he disperses his sea-like
wetness in the uncoalescing openings.
I turn round to face the upturned salmon
resting my haunches on his tiny pelvis bone
and place the emptiness of my self-same stillness on his swelling brine-filled
forward motion, the tiny upliftings, the rise and falling of things
unseen, undreamt of, like the long red rays of the sun going (up &) down.
The other salmon moves closer, so that soon
in his approach he is not so much near me as in me
Glad to be in? No? So unprotected
from your rubbery glance, so plastic in your
stretched smile. He was
pointing out his full bodylength, like a gull's neck
Love big enough to hide in a breadbox--
all that is true, I carry inside me,
and out and in, this bodywidth of frailty.
My eyes fix on the singular redness of the thing
the unnatural thickening, just there, anticipating
the eruption of the present, the simultaneous emptying,
the undulations, the eager logic, the perplexed engines of desire....
The radio by the bed announced:
"... they were readied by forces she did not recognize ..."
at that last moment we moved, by prearranged signals
so that the one stood at my feet, above the glistening sheets
where my welcoming toes stand out, and the other moves
to my face where my bluest eye begs for his oblation.
the ending of things
all too certain--a shattering of selves into the rubble
and debris, like ancient Troy a shattering of statues into
unseemly piles of arms, and heads, and legs--the faces
worn away and wedged in between.
We lay there, as Paris, Menelaus & Helen lay--
bodies jumbled up as the shattered stone
our juices spilled for kings.
Even the ear, too, is finally satiated
and the window swallows these words:
"Wait! Did I say salmon? ... I meant salesmen."
"We're in too deep...."
Jorie Graham's "Prayer"
I met two salmon once
in a motel room near Troy, Nebraska--
glimmering and slippery they were,
as tasty as the finest eels, brown and golden
in a frying pan.
The first lay upside down & backwards, while the other
stood beside the bed--patiently waiting--quick & glittering
from the wetness of my mind, where it had dipped into
and found my secret (as I knelt on the bed in prayer):
I have this great emptiness, deep within me,
which needs to be filled.
Nothing else matters.
They were not endangered, not by me at least;
I had never killed anything that way
(except perhaps that time I morally
wounded a dwarf mongoose in Rhode Island,
and I gagged once on an albino python in Montreal)
I hold within so many things--
one size fits all, but I am not unquenchable.
Plunging upwards, the upturned salmon swam against the stream
he found the running bitter waters
he found the deepest part, too sweet,
he found the quickening tissues of life's first ocean
and mouthed with his ovule lips the words, words, words
first spoken by The Serpent in The Garden
and felt the knot--a bit off from what he thought--
but truly there.
I felt his thirst unloosened by the in-betweeness
that I shared--I named the two salmon: Far Better
and Four Worse.
Deeper, deeper, into less and less--their minds unfastened
with a quickening gait.
The smooth surfaces of things split, rejoined, and split again
the timeless motions, the quickening, the race, ...
Too deep? he said,
like the bluebird's beak
lowering the early worm into the open gaping mouth--
like the yawning chick, my blindness was all peripheral
a matter of perspective, the immanent domain of trousers
snaking their way edgewise into the gullet of the opening maw,
like soiled clothes touching the edge of an overstuffed hamper.
Bluish and empurpled veins stand out on the salmon, too
tight skin, as my kisses land on every inch of the seeable
translucent self. Meanwhile, the upturned salmon, bare and bony,
feeds on small puddles of snowmelt, lapping up the miles.
With his endless inwardness, he disperses his sea-like
wetness in the uncoalescing openings.
I turn round to face the upturned salmon
resting my haunches on his tiny pelvis bone
and place the emptiness of my self-same stillness on his swelling brine-filled
forward motion, the tiny upliftings, the rise and falling of things
unseen, undreamt of, like the long red rays of the sun going (up &) down.
The other salmon moves closer, so that soon
in his approach he is not so much near me as in me
Glad to be in? No? So unprotected
from your rubbery glance, so plastic in your
stretched smile. He was
pointing out his full bodylength, like a gull's neck
Love big enough to hide in a breadbox--
all that is true, I carry inside me,
and out and in, this bodywidth of frailty.
My eyes fix on the singular redness of the thing
the unnatural thickening, just there, anticipating
the eruption of the present, the simultaneous emptying,
the undulations, the eager logic, the perplexed engines of desire....
The radio by the bed announced:
"... they were readied by forces she did not recognize ..."
at that last moment we moved, by prearranged signals
so that the one stood at my feet, above the glistening sheets
where my welcoming toes stand out, and the other moves
to my face where my bluest eye begs for his oblation.
the ending of things
all too certain--a shattering of selves into the rubble
and debris, like ancient Troy a shattering of statues into
unseemly piles of arms, and heads, and legs--the faces
worn away and wedged in between.
We lay there, as Paris, Menelaus & Helen lay--
bodies jumbled up as the shattered stone
our juices spilled for kings.
Even the ear, too, is finally satiated
and the window swallows these words:
"Wait! Did I say salmon? ... I meant salesmen."
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Strangest MRDP I Ever Did See
The Strangest MRDP I Ever Did See
"They can't separate probably...."
Robert Hass' "Dragonflies Mating"
One day walking in a tangled wood
Past the cool stream
Past the weeping stand of willows
Under the warm sun, beaming down,
I saw them.
They lay there, almost helpless,
Writhing in the agony of the damned,
Angels,
Two of them, joined at the hip,
The strangest MRDP I ever did see on earth.
And what was really strange,
About angels, I mean,
Was they have no breasts,
Not even the merest vestigial Vestal vessels for the
Milk of human kindness....
Looking at them is hard on the eyes 'cause bisexually
They look, one way, male
And, another way, female
And even the (I think) female has breasts no bigger
Than a double AA cup, like a Pre-teenager
And the (I think) male looked like a boy
With a caved-in sunken chest and sticky-outee nipples
Like an bitch that just gave birth last week.
Their skin was slickly white, like a marbleized plaster bust
And the rock-like flesh did not give at all
To the pressure of the rocks and leaves and sticks
That were under them, pushing up, as they thrashed around.
But this same marble skin was covered with honey,
At least it looked like honey, or perhaps it was
The yellowed bee-extruded licorice-looking Ambrosial
Sweat of Angels
Who, flying in the night, connect (by accident)
Crashing together like blind seagulls (at least
That's the story they'll tell later).
But here they were, stuck together like two dogs
Caught and helpless in their passion, needing a bucket of water
Thrown on them.
And as they rolled across the grass, the leaves
Stuck to their waxy, honeyed limbs, like rose petals
Clinging to the bees that had assaulted them (sexually).
Taking pity on their sufferings, I found a long limb
Broken in a storm from an old elm (useless for a fireplace)
And, raising it over my head, brought it down across their
Head&shoulders repeatedly, again and again, until
In more than mortal pain&anguish, they pulled apart
And then, without a by-your-leave, or thanks (to me) of any kind
They sprouted enormous wings and flapping
Lifted themselves into the empty sky.
Nothing else of note happened that day
Except my hands--even to this day--have the smell
Of burnt cat-piss, just like an elm branch thrown in the fire.
You don't believe me? Here, smell my finger.
-----------------------------------------------
Eric Dutton suggests that "MRDP" stands for Mystical Realization of
Divine Providence, and another reader suggests Magical Realist Double Penetration, but the reader can choose whatever phrase seems most appropriate.
This poem was first published in Arkansas Literary Forum
http://fac.hsu.edu/beggsm/ALF/2003/lee2.htm
"They can't separate probably...."
Robert Hass' "Dragonflies Mating"
One day walking in a tangled wood
Past the cool stream
Past the weeping stand of willows
Under the warm sun, beaming down,
I saw them.
They lay there, almost helpless,
Writhing in the agony of the damned,
Angels,
Two of them, joined at the hip,
The strangest MRDP I ever did see on earth.
And what was really strange,
About angels, I mean,
Was they have no breasts,
Not even the merest vestigial Vestal vessels for the
Milk of human kindness....
Looking at them is hard on the eyes 'cause bisexually
They look, one way, male
And, another way, female
And even the (I think) female has breasts no bigger
Than a double AA cup, like a Pre-teenager
And the (I think) male looked like a boy
With a caved-in sunken chest and sticky-outee nipples
Like an bitch that just gave birth last week.
Their skin was slickly white, like a marbleized plaster bust
And the rock-like flesh did not give at all
To the pressure of the rocks and leaves and sticks
That were under them, pushing up, as they thrashed around.
But this same marble skin was covered with honey,
At least it looked like honey, or perhaps it was
The yellowed bee-extruded licorice-looking Ambrosial
Sweat of Angels
Who, flying in the night, connect (by accident)
Crashing together like blind seagulls (at least
That's the story they'll tell later).
But here they were, stuck together like two dogs
Caught and helpless in their passion, needing a bucket of water
Thrown on them.
And as they rolled across the grass, the leaves
Stuck to their waxy, honeyed limbs, like rose petals
Clinging to the bees that had assaulted them (sexually).
Taking pity on their sufferings, I found a long limb
Broken in a storm from an old elm (useless for a fireplace)
And, raising it over my head, brought it down across their
Head&shoulders repeatedly, again and again, until
In more than mortal pain&anguish, they pulled apart
And then, without a by-your-leave, or thanks (to me) of any kind
They sprouted enormous wings and flapping
Lifted themselves into the empty sky.
Nothing else of note happened that day
Except my hands--even to this day--have the smell
Of burnt cat-piss, just like an elm branch thrown in the fire.
You don't believe me? Here, smell my finger.
-----------------------------------------------
Eric Dutton suggests that "MRDP" stands for Mystical Realization of
Divine Providence, and another reader suggests Magical Realist Double Penetration, but the reader can choose whatever phrase seems most appropriate.
This poem was first published in Arkansas Literary Forum
http://fac.hsu.edu/beggsm/ALF/2003/lee2.htm
Monday, May 7, 2007
Death Returns from Holiday
This poem was influenced, not so much by Meet Joe Black as
by the earlier film Death Takes a Holiday (1934). In this
version of the story, Death tires of his job and decides
to woo the daughter of a millionaire (played by Frederic March).
While he is "on holiday" people stop dying. The terminally ill,
those horribly maimed by accidents, all continue to suffer
because they are unable to die.
--------------------------------
Death Returns from Holiday
"... Nothing ever felt this good."
Marie Howe's "Death, the Last Visit"
I find you and you wrap your fleshy thighs
Around my torso,
Spinning I send you around the emptiness of your room.
I'm sorry I was late, but you understand--
Your open mouth beckons for it
The saltiest of any salty cock you've ever had.
Now that I have you, I won't ever leave,
Even after that bitchy smell
Fills the air with that aroma which is only you.
I take you the way you always hated it
Doggie-style, like Cerberus--three-headed,
Triphallic; and I'm lucky you're a three input kind of gal.
My tongue pries open your mouth, your tongue swells
With lust at my insistence
Feeding my advance with your sweetest breath.
You thought no man could ever reach this deep inside--
No man can touch your heart the way I do
Perhaps dislodge a kidney, pierce a lung or two.
A sour nipple explodes at the nearness of my touch
Your arm twitches with residual delight
Stray neurons firing like that one last, best orgasm of the night.
There's something about that glisten in your eye that says,
"God, forgive me." But you know I always do,
Then, thick lips pressed to your ovule mouth, I say:
"I love you....
I'm sorry I was late. Did I make it up to you?"
I hope so, because forever after,
A corpse, three days dead, is all that's left of you.
by the earlier film Death Takes a Holiday (1934). In this
version of the story, Death tires of his job and decides
to woo the daughter of a millionaire (played by Frederic March).
While he is "on holiday" people stop dying. The terminally ill,
those horribly maimed by accidents, all continue to suffer
because they are unable to die.
--------------------------------
Death Returns from Holiday
"... Nothing ever felt this good."
Marie Howe's "Death, the Last Visit"
I find you and you wrap your fleshy thighs
Around my torso,
Spinning I send you around the emptiness of your room.
I'm sorry I was late, but you understand--
Your open mouth beckons for it
The saltiest of any salty cock you've ever had.
Now that I have you, I won't ever leave,
Even after that bitchy smell
Fills the air with that aroma which is only you.
I take you the way you always hated it
Doggie-style, like Cerberus--three-headed,
Triphallic; and I'm lucky you're a three input kind of gal.
My tongue pries open your mouth, your tongue swells
With lust at my insistence
Feeding my advance with your sweetest breath.
You thought no man could ever reach this deep inside--
No man can touch your heart the way I do
Perhaps dislodge a kidney, pierce a lung or two.
A sour nipple explodes at the nearness of my touch
Your arm twitches with residual delight
Stray neurons firing like that one last, best orgasm of the night.
There's something about that glisten in your eye that says,
"God, forgive me." But you know I always do,
Then, thick lips pressed to your ovule mouth, I say:
"I love you....
I'm sorry I was late. Did I make it up to you?"
I hope so, because forever after,
A corpse, three days dead, is all that's left of you.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
The Errors of Poetry
I wrote this poem after reading T.R. Hummer's "Where you go when she sleeps"
I found his poem to be deeply offensive, and I wrote this in the white heat of anger...
_____________________
The Errors of Poetry
"... whatever vacuum you were in before"
T.R. Hummer's "Where you go when she sleeps"
What does it mean when you walk into the living room
and see a guy sitting on your couch,
his hand cradling a woman's head against his lap?
What is it with this guy?
What is it about her face in his crotch,
that makes him think about oats being sucked out of a silo?
Why is it that all things golden,
even "the deep rush of the grain"
remind him of death,
or his last, best orgasm while drunk on pure-grain alcohol
or high on Panama Gold?
Is it her golden hair, tinted black at the roots?
Is it the tattoo of their golden retriever
inked with brown henna on her shoulder blade?
Is it the golden ring, piercing her lower lip, which brings
to mind that time she took his yellow Beemer
and crashed it into the lake
(and how--inspired by his name--she made it up to him later)?
Or is it the "vacuum you were in before" that great emptiness
deep within her golden skin--her mind, like Yorick's,
which begs over and over to be filled.
How much depends on rendering into verse
the corpse of some forgotten farmer's son
lost in a silo full of oats?
And why does this poem remind me of Eric Clapton,
or anyone who's ever written a poem about a guardian angel?
I don't know--you tell me.
I found his poem to be deeply offensive, and I wrote this in the white heat of anger...
_____________________
The Errors of Poetry
"... whatever vacuum you were in before"
T.R. Hummer's "Where you go when she sleeps"
What does it mean when you walk into the living room
and see a guy sitting on your couch,
his hand cradling a woman's head against his lap?
What is it with this guy?
What is it about her face in his crotch,
that makes him think about oats being sucked out of a silo?
Why is it that all things golden,
even "the deep rush of the grain"
remind him of death,
or his last, best orgasm while drunk on pure-grain alcohol
or high on Panama Gold?
Is it her golden hair, tinted black at the roots?
Is it the tattoo of their golden retriever
inked with brown henna on her shoulder blade?
Is it the golden ring, piercing her lower lip, which brings
to mind that time she took his yellow Beemer
and crashed it into the lake
(and how--inspired by his name--she made it up to him later)?
Or is it the "vacuum you were in before" that great emptiness
deep within her golden skin--her mind, like Yorick's,
which begs over and over to be filled.
How much depends on rendering into verse
the corpse of some forgotten farmer's son
lost in a silo full of oats?
And why does this poem remind me of Eric Clapton,
or anyone who's ever written a poem about a guardian angel?
I don't know--you tell me.
Monday, April 30, 2007
The Executioner of Academe
This poem first appeared in American Dissident.
---------------------------
The Executioner of Academe
"... It overtook him finally"
Donald Justice's "In Memory of the Unknown Poet"
I am his story
I will always be his story
The brute boot put against his face--
This nameless poet, scrambling to find a place
Of tenure, or a sinecure, or a post
Where safely he can sit and think
And maybe write diacriticals or deconstructive verse.
I stalked him, I overtook him finally
in the hallways of The Academe, before he took his orals.
"Who is the victim today," I say
Within earshot of his trembling lip, his hairless chin.
My partners in this crime,
Professors of Medieval lit and the Metaphysicals,
Deferred to me--his executioner--the Modernist
As the most nearly able to judge the body of his work.
But I had already judged, found wanting this black-bespeckled bird,
And I was first to place my soft-leather boot in that face
And shove him back down the snake&ladder chute.
Aware (he was) now finally of the boredom and the horror....
Perhaps in the end he was not sad
Even in that moment when the oxford leather struck his face.
That was his story anyway, or it became his story
Of how he (narrowly) escaped the boredom and the horror.
When lately I have seen him wandering
From his job as cappuccino cashier to Wal-mart greeter,
I think back on that day, and it gives me cheer
For I had become the boredom and the horror.
It is all done now, but I can still remember
His effeminate voice, his one unfocused eye as it straggled
Limply along the text of his great masterwork,
His fading voice now no longer filled with poetry.
It is all now the horror and the horror.
---------------------------
The Executioner of Academe
"... It overtook him finally"
Donald Justice's "In Memory of the Unknown Poet"
I am his story
I will always be his story
The brute boot put against his face--
This nameless poet, scrambling to find a place
Of tenure, or a sinecure, or a post
Where safely he can sit and think
And maybe write diacriticals or deconstructive verse.
I stalked him, I overtook him finally
in the hallways of The Academe, before he took his orals.
"Who is the victim today," I say
Within earshot of his trembling lip, his hairless chin.
My partners in this crime,
Professors of Medieval lit and the Metaphysicals,
Deferred to me--his executioner--the Modernist
As the most nearly able to judge the body of his work.
But I had already judged, found wanting this black-bespeckled bird,
And I was first to place my soft-leather boot in that face
And shove him back down the snake&ladder chute.
Aware (he was) now finally of the boredom and the horror....
Perhaps in the end he was not sad
Even in that moment when the oxford leather struck his face.
That was his story anyway, or it became his story
Of how he (narrowly) escaped the boredom and the horror.
When lately I have seen him wandering
From his job as cappuccino cashier to Wal-mart greeter,
I think back on that day, and it gives me cheer
For I had become the boredom and the horror.
It is all done now, but I can still remember
His effeminate voice, his one unfocused eye as it straggled
Limply along the text of his great masterwork,
His fading voice now no longer filled with poetry.
It is all now the horror and the horror.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
I Wag This Dog
I Wag this Dog
"...it can tell a dull story."
William Matthews' "Pissing off the Back
of the Boat into the Nivernais Canal"
Iamb
the measure of all man
iamb, iamb
the measure of all man.
See me stand, see me stand,
Master of all the Land,
Primogenitor of Poetry,
pissing in the proverbial wind,
Primal Source of sloppy verse
(ooops I wet myself again)....
The only thinking part of man.
Iamb the Pater Familias
"Do you have Prince Albert in a can?"
"Sure we do."
"Then let him out!"
Iamb the creative source of every dog-leg joke that ever was
and the lusty source of every child that has
your eyes, your chin, your smile.
Iamb poetry, Iamb music, Iamb philosophy:
What is good?
Good is that day at work, when you see the end of it
and know you did your part (almost) pretty-good.
Good is the coldest beer in your hand, the biggest fish
in your net, and your friend's big boat slowly
heading back to a dock he pays the rent for.
Good is milking your neighbor's cow through the fence,
with the sun just come up, the cool breeze in your face,
and holding something warm&wet in your hand.
What is evil?
Evil is following that gal home, whose big behind
attracts you like the divining rod of lust.
Evil is fighting that guy that you can't beat,
even with a 2x4 and a good first shot
in his huge, ugly mush
--or, worse yet, watching him sitting on your favorite bar stool
and buying drinks for that woman whose soul is
beat down with the biggest ugly stick there ever was.
But truly the greatest evil of all
is the Frankenstein monster that sneaks up behind you
--so you don't see it comin'--
it creeps up behind us like a malignant prostate tumor.
And even when your daddy died, his brothers
stood in line and shook hands with every other
(as I did in my imagination)
for I knew them all. I knew these old men and they knew me--
they had the smell of cancer on them
or was it dried urine? I think I know what cancer smells like.
And when the prostate dies, the rest of us will follow
very soon. For (in your mind) I am that flag
flown at half-mast to symbolize
the flacid final death which comes, too soon, for us all.
And what is Heaven?
Heaven is you at a Green Bay Packer football game
in December, with no shirt, your chest painted green and yellow,
in -10 degree weather and the beer in your plastic
cup with a frozen head of foam....
Hell is me there with you, colder'n the head of an eskimo's tool.
"...it can tell a dull story."
William Matthews' "Pissing off the Back
of the Boat into the Nivernais Canal"
Iamb
the measure of all man
iamb, iamb
the measure of all man.
See me stand, see me stand,
Master of all the Land,
Primogenitor of Poetry,
pissing in the proverbial wind,
Primal Source of sloppy verse
(ooops I wet myself again)....
The only thinking part of man.
Iamb the Pater Familias
"Do you have Prince Albert in a can?"
"Sure we do."
"Then let him out!"
Iamb the creative source of every dog-leg joke that ever was
and the lusty source of every child that has
your eyes, your chin, your smile.
Iamb poetry, Iamb music, Iamb philosophy:
What is good?
Good is that day at work, when you see the end of it
and know you did your part (almost) pretty-good.
Good is the coldest beer in your hand, the biggest fish
in your net, and your friend's big boat slowly
heading back to a dock he pays the rent for.
Good is milking your neighbor's cow through the fence,
with the sun just come up, the cool breeze in your face,
and holding something warm&wet in your hand.
What is evil?
Evil is following that gal home, whose big behind
attracts you like the divining rod of lust.
Evil is fighting that guy that you can't beat,
even with a 2x4 and a good first shot
in his huge, ugly mush
--or, worse yet, watching him sitting on your favorite bar stool
and buying drinks for that woman whose soul is
beat down with the biggest ugly stick there ever was.
But truly the greatest evil of all
is the Frankenstein monster that sneaks up behind you
--so you don't see it comin'--
it creeps up behind us like a malignant prostate tumor.
And even when your daddy died, his brothers
stood in line and shook hands with every other
(as I did in my imagination)
for I knew them all. I knew these old men and they knew me--
they had the smell of cancer on them
or was it dried urine? I think I know what cancer smells like.
And when the prostate dies, the rest of us will follow
very soon. For (in your mind) I am that flag
flown at half-mast to symbolize
the flacid final death which comes, too soon, for us all.
And what is Heaven?
Heaven is you at a Green Bay Packer football game
in December, with no shirt, your chest painted green and yellow,
in -10 degree weather and the beer in your plastic
cup with a frozen head of foam....
Hell is me there with you, colder'n the head of an eskimo's tool.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Dead Drunks in the Bar
Dead Drunks in the Bar of a Bowling Alley in Milwaukee
“Only its head was smashed."
Molly Peacock's "The Lull"
The drunk guy laid out on the bar--
We thought, hey, he can't drink no more,
His head stunk, pass'd out and dead--Can't
Leave, can't go, even to the head
An' throw up that dog that bit him.
Me, face down the toilet, hangin' rim,
"Bowl!" they said to me, glaz'd over,
But instead I went to see Old Ben Dover:
Big white pock-marks on Whitey's skin,
Big rat nose on a li'l rat chin,
Big fat tail planted on a stool,
Big rat jewels on a li'l rat tool.
I knew him once when he was a charmer
Now I'd rather do lunch with Jeff Dahmer.
“Only its head was smashed."
Molly Peacock's "The Lull"
The drunk guy laid out on the bar--
We thought, hey, he can't drink no more,
His head stunk, pass'd out and dead--Can't
Leave, can't go, even to the head
An' throw up that dog that bit him.
Me, face down the toilet, hangin' rim,
"Bowl!" they said to me, glaz'd over,
But instead I went to see Old Ben Dover:
Big white pock-marks on Whitey's skin,
Big rat nose on a li'l rat chin,
Big fat tail planted on a stool,
Big rat jewels on a li'l rat tool.
I knew him once when he was a charmer
Now I'd rather do lunch with Jeff Dahmer.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
The Love Song of Tupac Shakur
_____________________________________________
The Love Song of Tupac Shakur
Or "Die, Princess, Die!"
"No matter where I go, I see the same hoe."
2pac Shakur's "All Bout U"
I know U mo than that, it's a fact
compassion ain't for me, U can see
I'm just a Thug nigga, in love, with the white bitch
on the t.v., jus dyin' for a li'l love from me.
No matter where i turn, there she is
gettin' her ass played by the white man.
In the Palace, U is just a joke,
torn apart by the lies, now U go
spread your thighs for a white bloke,
charlie the tuna, prince chicken-o-the-sea --
The way i see, you belong to me, so let's go
knock booties, down by the pitcher show.
[voice over]
"Mr. Doggie-S ...."
Listen to the ray-de-o, watch'n the news vid-e-o
everything they show, is just some dead hoe.
Talkin' to the people i meet, jus' goin' down the street
all they can say, is how did she die that day?
Tears bring truth, even when i cry, i hear your "candle
in the wind" sung by that English guy.
Tear apart the lies,
spread Ur grace,
on my face;
They say you was easy, like Aunt Luweezee,
But you was never sleezy, not one of them groupie hoes
Waitin' round at the end of my show.
I just saw you on the t.v., workin' your charitie
hope you find some time to come by and see me,
down by the Bay, jus' livin' and dyin' in L.A.
[voice over]
"Mr. Doggie-S ...."
Listen to the ray-de-o, watch'n the news vid-e-o
everything they show, is just the same ol' dead hoes.
Talkin' to the people i meet, jus' goin' down the street
all they can say, is why did she die that way?
[voice over]
"Outlaw Kenny-G ...."
I can see you ain't eatin'... Is U sick. I hear you
throw up, and then eat, then throw up
U sure one fucked-up white chick
Is U sick? ... No? ... Well suck my sick ....
Yeah! You go girl! You go! You sho got a bad case of the Negrophilia....
[speaking over the last two lines]
It's yo thang, do watcha wanna do,
headin' for the bathroom, 'bout to toss it up.
Give it up for free, on the t.v., or move it to the street corner
Watch some old fag queen get a boner
like U is one o' his skinny little boy-toys.
But U an' me, we see, reality.
I guess it's hard, even harder for U
wid two baby boys, an the queen holdin' out on you.
Charlie did it sweet & smooth, plottin' and a gamin' U.
Got a dinner date, wid some A-rab rich boy,
Got your legs up, lookin' for some love.
U shoulda seen me in the first case, in the first place.
[voice over]
"Mr. Doggie S. ...."
Listen to the ray-de-o, watch'n a news vid-e-o
everything they show, is just the same ol' dead hoes.
Talkin' to the people i meet, jus' goin' down the street
all they need to know, is he's in love wid a dead hoe.
[voice over]
"Outlaw Kenny-G ...."
I saw this old scrany Indian hoe on the t.v., she was dead too
jus' like the princess. Said her name was Mother T., she was into
charitee, just like the princess, a workin' down Calcutta way.
I saw her on the t.v. in Haiti, with ol' Duvalier, collectin'
40 thou, then I saws her with that dictator Ceaunescu, collectin'
60 thou, then I saws her with ol' Slobbodaddy Milosodick, collectin'
80 thou! And I says to myself "Man, that scrawny old
hoe sho can peddler her ass! I'd like to be her Pimp-Daddy."
But hey, man, pimpin' aint easy! I might have to knock boots wid some ol' biddy.
In the church, i touch Ur coffin,
See i love ya, love ya like my own, but you died
and left me all alone. You died too quick, and i guess
that's why they call you Princess Die.
But even now, you an' me, i can see us in Eternity....
Heaven ain't hard to find in a hearse, Princess.
See me naked, sweaty, poundin' yo' skin
when i bend U over, i'll fukU from Windsor to Woodlawn cemetary--
Me & U hollerin my name out (if U could).
I know U like straight sex, but
even for a white girl you barely move your ass....
Holy shit! Sir Johnny's got his gun!
[sounds: pop pop pop ... screams ... ambulance siren]
[voice from the clouds:]
"Only God can judge me. Only God can judge me. Only God can judge me...."
Here I am, heaven's not hard
Heaven's not hard to find.... Where's the princess?
Outta my way, mutherfuckers! I'm a straight Thug nigga on a mission!
Hey Princess, can i hit it...?
Wait a minute.... U ain't the Princess....
Holy Jeezus! Some crazy old Indian nun dun got me!
Help! Sumbuddy get this ol' tarbaby offn' me....
[later, the voice drifting away]
...Hey there, Mr Jeezus! Where can i get some reincarnation?
......Is that on Lexington Avenue, ... near Briarpatch Lane?
Friday, April 6, 2007
Leda & the Swain
This poem first appeared in Lee Thorne's poetry newsletter, Fuck!
__________________________________
Leda and the Swain
"... and grew truly swan within her womb."
"Leda" Rainer Maria Rilke
When the brute beast came into the room
Wearing a swan's-down suit, just like a second skin,
She saw him and knew him for what he was
King of the Gods (in his own mind anyway)
Master of all things great and small
King of Beasts,
Lord of Olympus!
And when she followed him into the empty bedroom,
Did she know then what powder he put on,
Smelling of Johnson's baby talc and Old Spice,
Before he would try to put it in her once or thrice?
Did she see it coming? Who can say?
Did that brute beast of the air
Fill her with regrets, among other things?
Or did she drop all pretense in his Presence?
Did she foresee what he predestined and foresaw?
Her hands caress the knape of this sweet Bill
Pressing along the length of his swell thunder-bolt
Delightful digits shaping the force that was to come
Charging like Greek seamen against the walls of Troy
Rendering the Trojan horse useless through her pre-partum foreplay
She saw it coming, just like last time,
She saw it--the one eyed monster--and knew it for what it was
And like the goose that laid the golden eggs
Her vocal-box encompassed him, in all his glory,
Rendering unto Caesar
(Bill Caesar, I think he said his name was)
All that was his (at least for the purposes of this story).
He thought he knew then what went wrong--
If he had come then as a dove or chicken
Pehaps a hawk or vulture, or a pidgeon
Things would have worked out better, but with a neck so long
He was certain to get goosed, ... and so she left him all undone.
The walls of some far future Troy will stand
And some far-flung Greeks will stay at home
Embarking, instead, on some electronic voyage
Where blood is not spilled, and Priam keeps his crown,
And Agamemnon takes his Saturday bath in peace
While his wife scrubs his back in that place where he can't reach.
__________________________________
Leda and the Swain
"... and grew truly swan within her womb."
"Leda" Rainer Maria Rilke
When the brute beast came into the room
Wearing a swan's-down suit, just like a second skin,
She saw him and knew him for what he was
King of the Gods (in his own mind anyway)
Master of all things great and small
King of Beasts,
Lord of Olympus!
And when she followed him into the empty bedroom,
Did she know then what powder he put on,
Smelling of Johnson's baby talc and Old Spice,
Before he would try to put it in her once or thrice?
Did she see it coming? Who can say?
Did that brute beast of the air
Fill her with regrets, among other things?
Or did she drop all pretense in his Presence?
Did she foresee what he predestined and foresaw?
Her hands caress the knape of this sweet Bill
Pressing along the length of his swell thunder-bolt
Delightful digits shaping the force that was to come
Charging like Greek seamen against the walls of Troy
Rendering the Trojan horse useless through her pre-partum foreplay
She saw it coming, just like last time,
She saw it--the one eyed monster--and knew it for what it was
And like the goose that laid the golden eggs
Her vocal-box encompassed him, in all his glory,
Rendering unto Caesar
(Bill Caesar, I think he said his name was)
All that was his (at least for the purposes of this story).
He thought he knew then what went wrong--
If he had come then as a dove or chicken
Pehaps a hawk or vulture, or a pidgeon
Things would have worked out better, but with a neck so long
He was certain to get goosed, ... and so she left him all undone.
The walls of some far future Troy will stand
And some far-flung Greeks will stay at home
Embarking, instead, on some electronic voyage
Where blood is not spilled, and Priam keeps his crown,
And Agamemnon takes his Saturday bath in peace
While his wife scrubs his back in that place where he can't reach.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Heart of Mine
Heart of Mine
"Inhuman in the dark, the leather straps...."
David St. John's "Nocturne Melting to Aubade"
Was I ever like the boys
you took to the cabin in the woods?
The spit-covered boys with red
sports cars and wind-blown hair
and expensive tans their dads paid for?
So long ago it was when I first
met you at the Princeton Club,
so long ago that I cannot remember
the trip to the cabin in the woods, and afterwards
you, sitting on the porch chair, stroking the
wild pussy on your lap.
It was so long ago, and yet I
now remember doing you until your
brain fell out the back of your skull
and you lying there, exhausted
with the thrill of conquest
over this small-town boy
with big ambition.
Now there is only the leather belt,
the rubber ball, and your conquests
over younger small-town boys.
"Inhuman in the dark, the leather straps...."
David St. John's "Nocturne Melting to Aubade"
Was I ever like the boys
you took to the cabin in the woods?
The spit-covered boys with red
sports cars and wind-blown hair
and expensive tans their dads paid for?
So long ago it was when I first
met you at the Princeton Club,
so long ago that I cannot remember
the trip to the cabin in the woods, and afterwards
you, sitting on the porch chair, stroking the
wild pussy on your lap.
It was so long ago, and yet I
now remember doing you until your
brain fell out the back of your skull
and you lying there, exhausted
with the thrill of conquest
over this small-town boy
with big ambition.
Now there is only the leather belt,
the rubber ball, and your conquests
over younger small-town boys.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
At the window
This poem is a little more serious than most of my stuff.
_____________________________________
At the Window
"... And found concealed imaginings. "
Wallace Stevens' "Peter Quince at the Clavier"
At the apartment complex
on a cool spring day,
I sat in the sandbox with my young son,
watching the window--
the second floor window, third from the left,
open as it was, with the dark wind
blowing the drapery about like a tornado.
Inside the room
I could just make out the forms
of two people locked in the movements
of passion, a motion
unmistakable to anyone
who sat, close and still, and watched
how they moved, how they paced themselves
delaying in their tender nerves
the climax that worked its slow way up
their spines and on to the calcinated & domed
bundle of nerve endings and grey tissue: the brain
whose purpose is (they used to say) to cool the hot
and fetid humours of the body.
Not that it ever does, of course;
a cold shower works much better for this purpose--
the brain is actually quite irregular and unsuited
for the purpose of calming the passions or
restraining the lusty impulses of flesh.
The movement of the wind on the drapery
manipulated the folds as if they were alive,
and behind the folded cloth, the shadows
in the dim light moved with a secret knowledge
accompanied by the movement of the drapes
like the Chorus of an ancient tragedy in Greece
or like the final, fatal kiss of Anthony & his Cleopatra
upon the stage of some long-lost Globe
burned and reduced to ashes, along with the rest
of London in the plague and fire of 1666.
Patience is its own reward,
and in the late, declining hours of dusk
as the light dims and the clouds radiate a sheen
of reds and purples, streaking the skies in keen anticipation
of the storm that was to come, had already come
and gone in some far distant land,
in that precise moment when the skies felt
the movements cease in the room
the winds dropped, and the curtains fell still.
I watched then, with even greater interest,
as the single form moved to the window.
He stood there for a few moments,
long enough to light a cigarette,
turn briefly to his lover and point a finger
to the darkening clouds on the horizon.
Of the other form, I saw only a familiar curve--
and the steps in the background as one moves in
the semi-darkness to their toilet.
I don't remember what else happened that day
except I picked up our son and moved
to the back door of the townhouse at
Apple Hill, grateful for the wind and the
sense of ending to it all that we now shared,
however brief.
And in the darkness of the night
with the storm coming hard upon us--
with lighting and hail and heavy rains--
you climbed into bed beside me and held me
as if you had never left.
And I loved you so much that I pretended to sleep
when you got up in the night, went to the window,
and stared out, with quiet longing, into the darkness beyond.
_____________________________________
At the Window
"... And found concealed imaginings. "
Wallace Stevens' "Peter Quince at the Clavier"
At the apartment complex
on a cool spring day,
I sat in the sandbox with my young son,
watching the window--
the second floor window, third from the left,
open as it was, with the dark wind
blowing the drapery about like a tornado.
Inside the room
I could just make out the forms
of two people locked in the movements
of passion, a motion
unmistakable to anyone
who sat, close and still, and watched
how they moved, how they paced themselves
delaying in their tender nerves
the climax that worked its slow way up
their spines and on to the calcinated & domed
bundle of nerve endings and grey tissue: the brain
whose purpose is (they used to say) to cool the hot
and fetid humours of the body.
Not that it ever does, of course;
a cold shower works much better for this purpose--
the brain is actually quite irregular and unsuited
for the purpose of calming the passions or
restraining the lusty impulses of flesh.
The movement of the wind on the drapery
manipulated the folds as if they were alive,
and behind the folded cloth, the shadows
in the dim light moved with a secret knowledge
accompanied by the movement of the drapes
like the Chorus of an ancient tragedy in Greece
or like the final, fatal kiss of Anthony & his Cleopatra
upon the stage of some long-lost Globe
burned and reduced to ashes, along with the rest
of London in the plague and fire of 1666.
Patience is its own reward,
and in the late, declining hours of dusk
as the light dims and the clouds radiate a sheen
of reds and purples, streaking the skies in keen anticipation
of the storm that was to come, had already come
and gone in some far distant land,
in that precise moment when the skies felt
the movements cease in the room
the winds dropped, and the curtains fell still.
I watched then, with even greater interest,
as the single form moved to the window.
He stood there for a few moments,
long enough to light a cigarette,
turn briefly to his lover and point a finger
to the darkening clouds on the horizon.
Of the other form, I saw only a familiar curve--
and the steps in the background as one moves in
the semi-darkness to their toilet.
I don't remember what else happened that day
except I picked up our son and moved
to the back door of the townhouse at
Apple Hill, grateful for the wind and the
sense of ending to it all that we now shared,
however brief.
And in the darkness of the night
with the storm coming hard upon us--
with lighting and hail and heavy rains--
you climbed into bed beside me and held me
as if you had never left.
And I loved you so much that I pretended to sleep
when you got up in the night, went to the window,
and stared out, with quiet longing, into the darkness beyond.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
X and Y, a dialogue
This poem was based on the work of a young poet in Laura’s poetry workshop.
____________________
X and Y, a dialogue
"naked baby, naked baby...."
Amy Trowbridge's "Tuesday Morning"
X:
We enter the room and you toss
your pathetic-looking cowboy hat on the pull-out
couch. You back up so your wide ass
is planted against the front door knob....
Are you afraid I might make a run for it?
Y:
You look at my apartment
with a tinge of disgust
on the tip of your nose, then stand
by the open window--so everyone
outside can watch us.
This’ll really help my rep a lot!
X:
This is how you want it, down
and dirty (the room I mean)
and so I take off my top. You're
practically grinning and drooling
at the same time. You know the yellow tube
comes off next, and you can just taste it--
I bet you'd chew on it, if I let you.
Y:
I know you don't want to be
here with me, but you made
the bet and hey, you're no welcher,
so I pull off my white t-shirt. I know
the sight of my nearly hairless chest will
make you hot.
X:
I can see your pointy nipples, alot like mine,
but puffy and scarred. I slip off the yellow
tube and watch your eyes get rounder than
your ass. What a jerk your are!
Y:
Your tits are not as big as I hoped, but
hey, what the hell, beggars can't choose.
I undo my belt, grab the two ends and
snap them hard, with a loud crack!
I bet that makes you wet.
X:
You definitely need that belt shoved
up your ass, and I'm just the one to do it.
As you struggle to undo your pants, I can truly believe
I am the first person on earth to get to
watch this horrorshow. Thank you God!
Y:
I shoulda took off the Nikes first,
And the white socks, too. Oh, shit, now
you look like you're going to throw up
or maybe laugh, or both & shoot vomit out
your nose, just like the party last night.
At least I can look away
while I struggle out of these bluejean pants.
X:
You have the grace & balance of a ballerina
with MS. You do the hop on one foot
looking like a wounded crane. JESUS,
what a loser. At least my black flip-flops
come off easy--and I have a little dignity left.
Y:
Should I leave the white socks on
or not? What a thought. The last
time I walked on the linoleum bare-
foot I found a piece of gum with a
single curly black hair stuck in
it--now where could that come from?
X:
Now he slips off the dingy gray&brown streaked
fruit-of-the-looms, slow and sexy,
(at least he thinks so). With my
luck he'll be hung like a cat.
Y:
If she ignores the love-handles,
the piercings on my nipples that
went horribly wrong, the beer gut,
the baby fat, and the dimples in all the
wrong places, and even the too-
long appendix scar... I may still
stand a chance here.
X:
WELL, at least he's well-hung, unlike my
current boy-toy. The last time he
fell on me (when we were both drunk)
it was all over before I even knew
he was there.... oh, well.
Y:
She has her pink panties, slips them
off so I can see that she is hygenic
and neat, YES! I'm ready for a bareback
ride. The sofabed is pulled open
and we stand, facing each other, like
chinese gymnasts in heat.
X:
This was the stupid bet,... that we could
run at each other, naked, leap in the air
and meet in mid-air. I know it was
a stupid bet, but I said I'd do it. And
our friends made some pretty big bets we
couldn't do it. I need to cut back on the booze.
Y:
I can feel the doorknob pressed
against my ass. This is as far
back as I can go and get a good
running start. She's standing at
the window & looks ready.
He's running.
She's running.
X:
Oh no!.......
Y:
Holy shit, we missed completely.
I'm flying out of the goddam
window and right into the
blackberry bushes. Shit!
that hurts. Shit. Shit. Shit.
X:
Damn that smarts! I landed on his goddam
sofa and the damn thing closed up on me.
"Hey somebody, call 911! Hey, Sissy! ....
Where is that little bitch when I need her!"
____________________
X and Y, a dialogue
"naked baby, naked baby...."
Amy Trowbridge's "Tuesday Morning"
X:
We enter the room and you toss
your pathetic-looking cowboy hat on the pull-out
couch. You back up so your wide ass
is planted against the front door knob....
Are you afraid I might make a run for it?
Y:
You look at my apartment
with a tinge of disgust
on the tip of your nose, then stand
by the open window--so everyone
outside can watch us.
This’ll really help my rep a lot!
X:
This is how you want it, down
and dirty (the room I mean)
and so I take off my top. You're
practically grinning and drooling
at the same time. You know the yellow tube
comes off next, and you can just taste it--
I bet you'd chew on it, if I let you.
Y:
I know you don't want to be
here with me, but you made
the bet and hey, you're no welcher,
so I pull off my white t-shirt. I know
the sight of my nearly hairless chest will
make you hot.
X:
I can see your pointy nipples, alot like mine,
but puffy and scarred. I slip off the yellow
tube and watch your eyes get rounder than
your ass. What a jerk your are!
Y:
Your tits are not as big as I hoped, but
hey, what the hell, beggars can't choose.
I undo my belt, grab the two ends and
snap them hard, with a loud crack!
I bet that makes you wet.
X:
You definitely need that belt shoved
up your ass, and I'm just the one to do it.
As you struggle to undo your pants, I can truly believe
I am the first person on earth to get to
watch this horrorshow. Thank you God!
Y:
I shoulda took off the Nikes first,
And the white socks, too. Oh, shit, now
you look like you're going to throw up
or maybe laugh, or both & shoot vomit out
your nose, just like the party last night.
At least I can look away
while I struggle out of these bluejean pants.
X:
You have the grace & balance of a ballerina
with MS. You do the hop on one foot
looking like a wounded crane. JESUS,
what a loser. At least my black flip-flops
come off easy--and I have a little dignity left.
Y:
Should I leave the white socks on
or not? What a thought. The last
time I walked on the linoleum bare-
foot I found a piece of gum with a
single curly black hair stuck in
it--now where could that come from?
X:
Now he slips off the dingy gray&brown streaked
fruit-of-the-looms, slow and sexy,
(at least he thinks so). With my
luck he'll be hung like a cat.
Y:
If she ignores the love-handles,
the piercings on my nipples that
went horribly wrong, the beer gut,
the baby fat, and the dimples in all the
wrong places, and even the too-
long appendix scar... I may still
stand a chance here.
X:
WELL, at least he's well-hung, unlike my
current boy-toy. The last time he
fell on me (when we were both drunk)
it was all over before I even knew
he was there.... oh, well.
Y:
She has her pink panties, slips them
off so I can see that she is hygenic
and neat, YES! I'm ready for a bareback
ride. The sofabed is pulled open
and we stand, facing each other, like
chinese gymnasts in heat.
X:
This was the stupid bet,... that we could
run at each other, naked, leap in the air
and meet in mid-air. I know it was
a stupid bet, but I said I'd do it. And
our friends made some pretty big bets we
couldn't do it. I need to cut back on the booze.
Y:
I can feel the doorknob pressed
against my ass. This is as far
back as I can go and get a good
running start. She's standing at
the window & looks ready.
He's running.
She's running.
X:
Oh no!.......
Y:
Holy shit, we missed completely.
I'm flying out of the goddam
window and right into the
blackberry bushes. Shit!
that hurts. Shit. Shit. Shit.
X:
Damn that smarts! I landed on his goddam
sofa and the damn thing closed up on me.
"Hey somebody, call 911! Hey, Sissy! ....
Where is that little bitch when I need her!"
Monday, April 2, 2007
The KMA School of Poetry
The Blog is devoted to the KMA School of Poetry.
What is the KMA School of Poetry?
Back a few years ago, I visited Lindsborg, Kansas, and toured the Red Barn Studio. This is the studio used by local artist, Lester Raymer, until his death in 1991. I could describe the amazing ability of this artist, but there are several sites on the internet that do this. I will say that I was inspired to write a Lester Raymer poem. This was the first poetry I had written in over twenty years. I continued to write poetry and sat in on Laura Washburn's poetry workshop in the Spring of 03.
Early on I gave her a poem "The Brazilian Cliff Diver." Laura read it and gave it back to me with the note: "A little too KMA for my taste."
I struggled over this cryptic note, trying to figure out what it might mean. Was it a secret code used by poets? Maybe it was just an off-the-cuff comment on my work in general.
So I went to Laura and asked her what KMA meant. She was puzzled. Then I showed her the poem and her note.
"No, it says "A little too Kim A. for my taste."
I looked, and sure enough there was a tiny "i" in there. She meant to say that the poem was a bit too much like Kim Addonizio's for her taste. Okay, that makes sense.
Anyway, a few months later the urge to write poetry faded. It was like, for a six month period, I was compelled to write one or two poems a week. Then nothing.
Here is my theory.
I think that while in Lindsborg I suffered a minor stroke which affected my left brain. Suddenly the balance of power between Left Brain and Right Brain shifted in favor of the Right Brain. So suddenly (and compulsively) I began to write poetry. Later, as my brain healed itself, the Left Brain was able to re-assert its dominance and the urge to write poetry faded.
____________________________________
Earl Lee is a librarian in Pittsburg, and he has written for The Humanist and Truth Seeker, including an article in the best-selling anthology: You Are Being Lied To.
His books include: Libraries in the Age of Mediocrity, and parodies of the fundamentalist “Left Behind” series, including:
The Raptured! : The Final Daze of the Late, Great Planet Earth.
What is the KMA School of Poetry?
Back a few years ago, I visited Lindsborg, Kansas, and toured the Red Barn Studio. This is the studio used by local artist, Lester Raymer, until his death in 1991. I could describe the amazing ability of this artist, but there are several sites on the internet that do this. I will say that I was inspired to write a Lester Raymer poem. This was the first poetry I had written in over twenty years. I continued to write poetry and sat in on Laura Washburn's poetry workshop in the Spring of 03.
Early on I gave her a poem "The Brazilian Cliff Diver." Laura read it and gave it back to me with the note: "A little too KMA for my taste."
I struggled over this cryptic note, trying to figure out what it might mean. Was it a secret code used by poets? Maybe it was just an off-the-cuff comment on my work in general.
So I went to Laura and asked her what KMA meant. She was puzzled. Then I showed her the poem and her note.
"No, it says "A little too Kim A. for my taste."
I looked, and sure enough there was a tiny "i" in there. She meant to say that the poem was a bit too much like Kim Addonizio's for her taste. Okay, that makes sense.
Anyway, a few months later the urge to write poetry faded. It was like, for a six month period, I was compelled to write one or two poems a week. Then nothing.
Here is my theory.
I think that while in Lindsborg I suffered a minor stroke which affected my left brain. Suddenly the balance of power between Left Brain and Right Brain shifted in favor of the Right Brain. So suddenly (and compulsively) I began to write poetry. Later, as my brain healed itself, the Left Brain was able to re-assert its dominance and the urge to write poetry faded.
____________________________________
Earl Lee is a librarian in Pittsburg, and he has written for The Humanist and Truth Seeker, including an article in the best-selling anthology: You Are Being Lied To.
His books include: Libraries in the Age of Mediocrity, and parodies of the fundamentalist “Left Behind” series, including:
The Raptured! : The Final Daze of the Late, Great Planet Earth.
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