untitled #11

pens are made to
get lost
like thoughts
not recovered for years
or days
spent dreaming
and scheming
and no one notices
til it’s time
to write a note
or recap a life
in song
or words
once at the
fingertips
now stored away
slipped between
the packets of photographs
in a box in the attic
or lives
lived alone
amongst the
myriad others
boiling, toiling
roiling crowds
all for a moment
of sunlight
not knowing the source is within.

Wow. Did I say pens?
I meant, uh, penguins
or penelope
the one over there
in the polka dot dress
not you or me
we’re somewhat
more permanent,
aren’t we?

u p #10

i c
i m
u r
b

untitled poem #9

Simple Simon
Sang a Song
and no one listened
and then they were gone.

and the next batch
o’freaks got to sing along

Kinda funny
but it’s wrong
don’t assume
your eyes and ears
speak truth
it could all be a myth
at least it’s everyone’s
version at once
so don’t presume
you know
how it’s done
or when.
Who’s to say?
where it’s day
for me it may
be night for you
What is ancient for one
to me is a youth.

It’s all we ever
dreamed
this lie
we tell ourselves
called life
So, careful, you
might
wake up
& spoil
the end
for yourself.
'til then,
sleep tight.

haiku? without title #3

Whatever.
i tried.
bitch.
but, you know, you expect a lot, and
you’re impossible to please, just like
my mother, and now i’d have to
write a whole freaking book of
haikus to get a blow job.

haiku without title #2

Another haiku
could only mean I got both
last nite. here’s hopin’…

haiku without title #1

A haiku for you
would mean so much more than, say,
a backrub or roses sex.

Something Serious

Every mentor, every enemy,
Each teacher and student,
All moms and all daughters
All dads & all sons
etc. each person
will, one day,
cease to be.
So, why take everything
so seriously?

untitled poem #8

So, now I see that there is no other
use for these words than to amuse
myself or thee, But thou
carest not for fancy words, or
large vehicles with 6 wheels
that can move your whole
living room set in one load.
Yeah, baby, I write this shit
for you, so you can know
I’ll always change directions
when you whistle that song I love.
Y’know, the one where you hold me
tight & make sweet love to me
all thru the night &
let me sleep in &
leave me alone to write.
all day.
and if I write six poems
that’s good.
But 8 would be better
and 12 more,
and when you read
them you’ll be set free.

untitled haiku #4

Wherever I go
I'll go with a smile and a
Wonderous new view

untitled #7

My Left Buttock
aches
to ride one more wave
and crash one more gully
and get dumped
to show it knows
it'll all be OK.
"Calm down," let the
guide pull you back
into the raft
and "stick that
oar in the water.
lean into it, too!"
no complacence here.

untitled piece o' poetry #6

I know nothing
but the water
and the motion
toward the ocean

I know nothing
but the trees
and the turtles
and the heron
and the bees

I know nothing
but the sky
and the clouds
and the rain
and I know I'm coming back again.

I know nothing
but chattooga
and ocoee
and who knows
where I'll be next week,
but I'll be
where the wind blows me
and I'll be happy
and I'll be free

u. p. #5

Clever shoes on her?
but she’s so frumpy,
the wedges; so clumpy,
like, not even her style.
and that bag doesn’t go at all,
It’s for someone who’s tall
or more chic
but she mist it by a mile,
like, she’s blind in one eye
or shopping
in shades or can’t be
what she is for a moment more
or finally saw she was
pathetic and weak
and dared to change
even if only for this afternoon,
Maybe she’ll have the guts
to look over and
say, “fuck! you!” to the bald
guy who’s staring and giggling
behind his hand to his friend
who’s a little insecure at
that weight.

Love ya.

untitled #4

I write the unpoem
I unwrite the repoem
I rewrite the depoem
I dewrite the bepoem.

O, poem, where are thy words?
who has thy rhythm?
why doesn’t anything rhyme with
rhythm
or orange?
unless sporange is in
The Oxford Unabridged,
then, where were you
when you readed it
and debunked
another
perfectly good excuse
for never using orange
or sporange in a
poem again, let alone
twice each?
N’Ice job, btw.
wink.
Wait, I think I see another rhyme.
never mind.

untitled #3

Sometimes you gotta let the words out-
even if it’s drivel (“drivel” is a word?)
and make the shit seem
real
Even tho’
everybody knows
it’s pretend.
But our minds will bend.

untitled poem #2

I refuse to write this poem
and I won’t write it in pen.
OK, maybe a line or two,
but I won’t enjoy it.
All right, it is kind of fun,
but I’m still mad and
I won’t like it.
Well, I guess, since
I’m writing anyway
might as well say
somethin’.
Fuck, shit.
That’s it.
and no one will like it.

untitled poem #1

Remembering things
I’m learning it’s all good-
Feeling bad
Knowing only thinking it’s so
makes it so.

Dreaming dreams
Living like I know I’m asleep
And all I have to do is leap
to fly.
Having it all
is not impossible
but probable
when I see who I
really am.
I am all of it
and if there could be more
I would be that, too.

Being