The Executioner of Academe

This poem first appeared in American Dissident.
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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.

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.

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.

The Love Song of Tupac Shakur

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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?

Leda & the Swain

This poem first appeared in Lee Thorne's poetry newsletter, Fuck!
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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.

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.

At the window

This poem is a little more serious than most of my stuff.
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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.

X and Y, a dialogue

This poem was based on the work of a young poet in Laura’s poetry workshop.
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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!"

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.

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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.