Saturday, August 25, 2012

The Tao of Taco Salad

The Tao of Taco Salad

Greasy, browned, and chili’d beef,
Seasoned and dripping, auburn
With cayenne, and tomato, and onion, and mostly salt:
Saturating the crispy shell bottom.

Shredded, yellowed iceberg leaf,
Drenched, ribboned filler of space.
Providing the gruesome illusion of healthiness:
Oleaginous vegetal distraction.

Sharp cheddar jack and sour cream,
Dolloped, cast, and clumping mass:
Creamy , soothing salves, tongue-tickling cool diversions
From the warm and spicy protean guts.

Salsa fresca, rough-chopped japs,
Minced or sauced, mildly-kicking,
A palate-consternating flaming glue and tinting force:
Power in each otherwise feckless bite.

Alas, the edible bowl:
Golden-crisped, corned and flaky,
Fleetingly contains, embraces then disintegrates
Into bygone crumby reminiscence.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Pennies on Edges

Pennies on Edges

Pick a number,

     Any number

     Between one and two.

Either headless,

     Or tailless too,

     The choice is yours, see:

You can’t be wrong,

     You just can’t.

     Wrong is not an option.

The Party

The Party

If there was ever a time when you loved me
I never knew it.

Instead, with abundant caution
     I loved us (both).
The time we spent, the things we did
     Passed, without.
What we made was never real,

What we made was never real,
     Just shadows,
          Dancing on the wall
          Behind a loveless flame.

The Telephone Game

The Telephone Game

That night, the night when Nietzsche slithered out of his throne,

     Scooted nearer and squatted down right next to me.

That night, the night when we formed an elliptical circle of chairs,

     (Was it Fanny Mendelssohn’s or at Rue de Berri?).

That night, the night when Nietzsche used his hand to cone the words

     As he leaned over and whispered them into my ear.

That night, the night when Nietzsche’s fetid breath warmed my neck,

     And his nostrils sat upon the floppy lobe
     beneath my thinning hair.

That night, the night when Nietzsche’s wine-soaked,

     spittle-covered tongue

     Lisped between his rotted teeth and swelled around his

     yellowed gums.

That night, the night when Nietzsche’s last-supped transubstantiated

     wafer crumbled,

     He slurred the Death of God and set me

          free to mourn.

What of this secret, whispered in this circle-ish salon game—

     What of this truth, passed on from lip to ear over epochs.

What of this secret, guarded in talumud, apocrypha, in altern

     scriptures of man—

     What of this truth brought far, both freeing from and invoking fear.

What of this secret, first over apple contemplated and making nude—

     What of this truth: Yahweh and Dionysis and Apollo dead alike.

What of this secret, bound in enlightened madness, carried over

     atomic wind—

     What of this truth, planted on the crucifixion of man’s own son.

What of this secret, that Paul and Augustine and Kant and Maimonides

     hid and sought—

     What of this truth, that guided armies slaying in its name.

What of this secret, this mournful ambitious secret, this trial—

     What of this truth, this hollow, hymned, and ringing truth

    (Whilst Wagner in the background hummed)—

          Passed on first from Christ himself,

          (Or Simon Peter or John the Baptizer or Abraham?)

          A secret truth rejected:

               and who is left to tell

               in this close-looped, unfulfilled orbit?

Monday, August 13, 2012

Confounding Pingala, Twice.

Confounding Pingala, Twice.


























Global Expansionism

Global Expansionism

Give me your hand.
I’ll give you my best,
And we will test our mettle together.

I made this for you.
For you to consume,
To taste, to process, and pass on.

We are tattoos
Inked upon the planet,
Crisp lines blurred with age.

Fist in the air,
Two fists in the air,
Four, eight, twelve billion.

Reach for the sky,
Jump from the ground
Unweighted, Earth expands—exhales
     —to meet our feet.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Hanky Panky

Hanky Panky

Nothing, short of nature herself,
     (or Martha Stewart, goddess)
Can beat a plush, white terry cloth.
Best when nine by nine and label free,
     (or maybe ten by ten, no larger)
A smart, tight-hemmed border,
And otherwise unadorned.

Better than a handkerchief,
Though pocketed the same:
Ever ready for instant,
               Material utilization.

Use for wiping drippy noses
     Caused by allergens or
     Sentimental eighties pop.

Use for cleaning table spills
     Caused by carelessness or
     Over-portioned plates.

Use for buffing wax on cars,
     Enhancing shine and sparkle or
     Filling wispy scratches.

Use for hanging on a rack,
     To hide a plaster imperfection or
     Companion for a towel.

Use to make a hand-sized ghost puppet
     To entertain at Halloween-time or
     As impromptu cat toy.

Use for wiping up ejaculate,
     Or two to get the brow and pubes or
     If you’re lucky, three.

Ode to a Towel

Ode to a Towel

Oh damp towel: to thee I sing: the song of a thousand songs.
Crumpled as you are and pre-musty as you may be,
I look on you with a certain longing, for your crunchy form,
For your terry-clothed wrinkles, for your rebirth in the spin cycle.

Oh damp towel: to thee I bring: the hope of a thousand hopes.
Of showers, of tears, of starting anew in the baths of glory.
Sitting cleanly on the floor, taking up the odors of the floor,
Heaped yet supple, ready to polish my missed spots and crevices.

Oh damp towel: from thee I flee: the memory of a thousand baptisms.
The fact of dirt washed away and re-communing on skin and cotton.
Drying and collecting and drying and moistening and drying and drenching,
Upon the face and ass without regard, without deference to the former.

Oh damp towel: for thee I am: the purpose of a thousand purposes.
Unconcerned with clean or not, an instrument alone,
Each use reincarnate: from rack to floor, to pile bottom,
Holding up the Sysyphusian mountain of my discontented future.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Vistas Ex Officio

Vistas Ex Officio

The view from here is wide, expansive, and true.

Beyond the moldy book-stacked space

     Between my desk and nearby window,

Beyond the sheers, beyond the blinds,

Beyond the valanced, double-panes,

Beyond the shaded casements,

Beyond the tattered porch, beyond the wooden swing,

     Made for two, that hangs precariously from a single-joisted beam,

Beyond the dandelioned, daisied, sandspurred lawn,

Beyond the thorny, coral floribunda rose,

     That I planted for my beau a decade back,

Beyond the crooked, brick-lined road,

Beyond the oak they say some great grandfather’s father

     Planted as a boy,

Beyond the city park where youngish men are smooching

     Youngish girls beneath an ecsatic kite,

Beyond the rippled, glassy lake where cirrus clouds scoot by reflected,

     Beyond the mottled ducks’ nests on its far, cattailed shore,

Beyond my nearest neighbor, there,

     Who’s name I’ve never learned

     Nor cared to,

Beyond that bulky steel, yet nimble raincloud,

     Bravely obscuring the gloaming sun,

     In an otherwise pinking sky,

Beyond the spot where bitsy, soaring eagles disappear,

Beyond these trifles that block the view from here,

     The view from here is wide, expansive, and true.



Wrestling with twigs,

Striving, above all,

     For austerity in step,

     To make my presence felt lightly.

Rustling the limbs,

With windlessness,

     Sincere and willowed,

     Palmed, perhaps pining.

Leaving the path,

Sagebrush underfoot,

     Overtrodden, wayward,

     Counting, not picking:

     Berries among briars.