Tuesday, November 8, 2011

A Blues Ditty

A Blues Ditty

Why do I keep looking to the sky for inspiration?
As if some booming voice will shower truth upon me:
“Do this, go there, be that, try harder.”
And so the sky and heavens and lunatic phantasms
Are silent, save the booming voice of blueness:
Not melancholy, nor sadness, nor loathing,

But blueness: A one-sided call and response:
But blueness: The only color to be seen:
But blueness: An unoxygenated blood lust:
But blueness: The new palate…palate…palate:
But blueness: Where children’s bubbles go:
But blueness: the quadrillion shades of blue:

The silent, booming blue.

On Changing Themes

On Changing Themes

Changing themes, I rustle leaves and try to help others
In Haiti and Japan and along the Mississippi flood plains,
But these are just words, on leaves, as the Bard did sing.
And unto the leaves, I sing, and barefootedly amble
Along fault lines and fault lines and fault lines
Where leaves will soon re-green and rustle, where
Earth meets the lowest realms of heaven,
Just above my blistered toes and below my heady themes.

Saturday, October 15, 2011



Low blood sugar shakes
Delivered upon a platter of
Golden eggs and
Platinum crackers.

Needing carbs to stifle
Shivers of—and salty-nuts—
Cheese and whine:
Empty pilsner’d stein.

Snee is for sneedle—
The integral base upon
Silicon and future.
Embattled wits

Control the joy and rapture.
Sycophantastic comers:
One and all for
One fair shake.



I want it so bad
I can feel it
In my barren gut.
The need consumes
My every single thought.
It really
I want to milk
My cows at noon,
To have a lazy
Rooster crow at
Half past two
And piss off the
Neighbors when I
Ride the horses
Where I shouldn’t
And pick the corn
Whenever the hell I want
And plant peanuts
In the same soil
Over and over
And over again.

I want it so bad
I can taste it.

Friday, October 14, 2011

Summer Indian

Summer Indian

October spring,
Summer’s aged flight
Of crows and jays
And yet encroaching night.

October fling,
Gilded stratus strands
Of chirping days—
Misanthropic plans.

October thing,
Melancholia unsuperable
Ravenous lust

Underscored October,
Halloweeny waste,
Sweet and bitter taste,
Unimportant haste,
Unsing-songy base,
Of unsprung:
October unrequited.

Friday, September 30, 2011

Before After Apple-Picking

For Ally’s Apple Orchard:

Before After Apple-Picking

Everything I know, or should, ‘bout apple-picking
I learned from Frost.
And still, in apple orchards, I am lost;
Unframed, minding where the ladder’s sticking.
Prematurely picked, apples not quite ripe,
Too tardy snatched and the flavor isn’t right.
Partly filling barrels by the twilight,
His wisdom tells me that I’ve just begun
To lyrically sum regrets with this chore:
A remedy: A meditative task:
A metaphor around which anthem’s spun,
Answering questions I have yet to ask.
I have started after-apple-picking first
Instead of last
Conjoining voice of youth with soul of past
This cannot last.
Not juiced nor cider’d nor unpicked, I thirst
For sweet and ripened, perfect fruit to barrel fill,
Nigh worm’d, or bruised, some worse,
Spring blossom reminisce in Autumn chill.
With many unfilled barrels, I am cursed,
Endings come first, without a hearty start,
For apples hid just out of sight.

This apple orchard place permits no rest.
The time’s not yet
To ruminate on all the ways I’m blessed
Or even count the haul.
Too many barrels yet remain unfilled,
And I have higher ladders still to build.
It’s only late summer or early fall,
I don’t recall. This early harvest swells,
Not quells,
With bitter picks.
Wiser ones know this task stands better-suited
For blue days, after October’s first flake:
Frosty Fall mix.
Such wisdom here falls, muted,
Behind a pane of frozen casement frame,
Or cellar from.
Alas, this after-apple-picking task
Appears a hassle, daunting chore to some—
Undone, unfilled cask.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Weeds and Wildflowers

For Helen’s Hill Loves Jimmy’s Great Lawn

Weeds and Wildflowers

When weeds become wildflowers
And wildflowers weeds,
We vary cultivation
According to their needs.
Whether hand-transplanted,
Or raised from suckled seeds
Or broadcast cross’d a lawn, at last,
Or cared for, for our needs:
They all began as weeds.

Lily of the Valley, Mint,
Chic’ry, Aster, Cress,
On mountain path, by
Sandy-soiled bluffs, they’re best,
Fertilized by vis’tors by,
Cold creek-watered or by the sky,
Arbor-shaded place of rest,
Adorning critter’s nests:
They all began as weeds.

When, at last, they propagate,
Each spring with surly dew,
And spread along the moistish ground,
With blazing colors new
And present against the richly soiled
Black and heaven’s blue,
To welcome guests and passers-through,
Exclaiming, “I am true!”:
They all began as weeds.

Adamites, we gave them names,
And like Linnaeus, classified.
Genus, species, plots, and rows,
Gardened, stocked, and stratified.
Country square or city park,
On alters, testified,
Aesthetically, they ratified,
With blooms, satisfied:
They all began as weeds.

Some wildflowers find homes at hearth,
Others to weed return.
Others still invade our lawns,
A former love, we spurn.
On hills, some petals, still we cherish,
Others, still, allowed to perish,
Some loved, before they’re born,
Like our flowers fraught, forlorn:
They all began as weeds.

Style, science, truth and knowledge
Cull, separate and thin.
Garden accent or center star,
Assign their place therein.
Now sublime or now invasive,
We’d rather pull than trim
Once in vogue, we’d sing in praise of,
The named and loved ones win.

Nigh weeds, nor wild, nor garden star
We’re left with memories afar,
Exchanging known for what might come,
Or raise our sense of beauty’s bar.
Not every species wins.
We all began as weeds.


(For Charlotte’s Creek):

When Irene passed through
And on, and left us
Damp of Eye and
And swelled our banks
And over-swept our bridges
And made the right
Low streets canals
And church steps docks
And steeples buoys,
And our homes of stick
And mortar creeked,
And smoothed some stones
Along the way,
We were warned—
Our mother is the prime
And in her passing resides
The power.
She cannot stay forever—
Tho’, hydrangea did renew—
Nor did we wish her to.

When Irene passed through
And on, and left us,
A new soul, Charlotte,
Came prime,
Or primer still, still quick
Yet still a trickling brook
From whence?
Another side, another line,
And swelled our banks
With minty tea
And craft and confection
And freshly-squeezed
And pulpy this and that
And rounded rocks,
We were warned—
Of the fragility of God’s
most porcelain creation,
Resilient soul.
In her passing resides
The power.
She cannot stay forever—
Tho’, deposit sediment anew—
Nor did we wish her to.

When Charlotte passed through
At last—a gift, daisy-new—and on,
Her name, upon the wind, did spread,
Broadcast along the wings of
Hummingbirds and clung to
Dandelions floating high and far
And did land along a
New shore—
A new bank deposited—
Among Helens and Anns:
A different clan.
Yet sweet, a promise still.
We were warned—
That tears can christen,
And baptize
And that squishy toes are for frolic
And that hydrangea need sediment
And that youth too will pass.
She cannot stay forever—
Spirited, alabaster soul grew—
Nor did we wish her to.

On Charlotte’s Creek,
O’er rocks of geologic time
And innumerable Irenes and Charlottes,
Anns and Helens,
And hummingbirds and dandelions
And daisies and hydrangea
And harvest moons
And apples dropp’d
And forests fell’d
And Winter snows
And Spring thaws
And swollen banks
And streaming trickles,
Eddying and rapids too,
And chilled toes
And whetted lips,
We are warned—
To cherish our enduring mother—
Adoration well-sprung.
She cannot stay forever—
Always and already new—
Though we may wish her to.

Dew Do

Dew Do

Leaves of grass,
Morning dew'd
With a promise from
Almighty, and a challenge:

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Manifesto (Howl Jr. (Jasyphus))

Manifesto (Howl Jr.(Jasyphus))
When, at last, it Struck me, I sat dumbfounded: I lay Stricken...

We stand at the second derivative of chaos.
We look behind us and see an ether through which
float flashes of incandescent genius.
We look before us and we see an infinitely untenable synapse,
a Styx whose gondolier waved from some undefined
center of pre-chaotic bliss.

We wonder where we are, and discover
that we are not even there yet.

The next level begets the first,
and our quest for the reigning in of those ideas,
however distant and entropically-placed they may feel
(or may have felt)
bring us to the approximation of what we sense.
We are engrossed with the least squares line that
charts our progress(?) heretofore,
and utterly disgust the aesthetic in our pride.

We stand at the first derivative of chaos,
and its name is beauty.

Beauty is the named means—averages not.
Chaos is our desired ends, a mythical achievement.

To achieve plateau,
and to imagine a "next" is a lunacy
upon which the whole of man's
knowledge is courageously and blindly placed.

Tangency is as unfounded in the realm
of aesthetic as teleology is in the
art of the inextricable.

My job, my occupation, my life's work: bask in the beauty.
My job, my occupation, my life's work: add to the beauty
and reign in the flashes of genius which surround me.

While I detest the teleology of the least squares line
upon which I stand, I comprehend the necessity of the mundanity
which it represents.

Though I detest the means—averages— (and I digress),
I-true to the paradigm whose mastery is measured monetarily-have
come to a point of comfort within it.
These provide the discrete tools of measurement within the ether.
The interrelationships within the beauty reflect
the immeasurable substrata that underlie the quest.
Reports and dollars are the tools with which we define our past and predict our future.
Discard these tools!
Relationships and self drive us inward.
Embrace these tools—means—(and I rejoin)!

Each day,
each moment of each day,
each moment between each moment of each moment
of each moment of each
moment of each moment of each moment
can last forever in our destiny and in our destiny unfulfilled.

We must strive for the latter:
for the chaos:
for the self and the multiselves
with which we can surround ourselves.

Blink, blind, and for some eternity we can judge ourselves,
not by what we have achieved,
but by all of those things that we have sought.
Blind, and for us the beauty...

No two moments are identical:
Einstein's special relativity:
Poincare's fourth dimension:
Picasso's spatial simultaneity:
each occurs at the same time in the very same
beauty in which we stand, blindly.

The moments,
spatially and temporally,
occur still, and we exist in that same ether.
Once we understand
this-once we can lasso these concepts-and
can make our place our own... We own beauty.

Chaos: Let us approximate it:
The beautiful:
Struck and Stricken.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011



At the point

When a showing becomes

A display.

When a display becomes

A spectacle,

When the margin doesn't

Matter anymore...

That's the point:

When the margin,

When dy/dx is

Less than a blink

Of a blink of a


That's the point.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011



Seventeenth and Castro
And Market.
Parked at the corner’s corner:
Three flows converge
And I am here.

Breathing Whitman’s Song
Singing, weeping,
Quietly sobbing:
Reckoning a thousand
Acres; Earth-reckoning.

Neither beginning nor ending
Just sitting, Indian-styled,
Breathlessly choking:
Gargling to the hum:
The click clack and shuffle
Of foreign feet.

Everywhere and nowhere-
Wind, breath, urging:
Always the procreant urge of the world!

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Bail Out

Bail Out

A silver piece or two or stainless steel or lead,
The price for shiny things we pay or barter.
And Mercury and quicksilver same,
Bundled, frozen, amalgamated: fiat.

What money? What Betrayal? What sterility? Poison?
The price for dream’d betrayals,
Blossomed or hatched or cesarean’d,
Unsafe as any seed: still unplanted.

Behold the plastic answer, its supple worthless bonds,
The price for imagination, hope—nay faith—
Nigh full faith and credit, silicon, silicone,
Saline’d breast unsuckled.

And trade, oh trade this thought,
Not perish’d, nor fully ripe’d, nor stale—a
Bit of crust, of cake, un-glutened, buttered,
Washed down with salty hemlock.

Krishna Scramble

Krishna Scramble

Unstable egg, axis-sitter:
Wobbling on the backs of turtles for
Tomorrow’s sake—rice wine—for
Redemptive platitudes, empty
And hollowed out.

Empty egg, yolkless:
Scrambled loose inside, soulless for
Eternal infertility—priapic—for
Greyed and unfeathered,
Viscous glaire.

Shattered egg, Humptied:
All the King’s men dispatched, for
Dancers’ moves—reflected—for
Ballerinas’ stretching poles, (toes and)
Tutus, barren.

Balanced egg, solsticed:
Sunny sides up and lunar too, for
Myth of parity—equinox—for
Empty nests and starry-
Eyed tortoises.