no comedy

I'm not a comedian, folks. 
Nor do I aspire to be standing 
in front of people trying to talk
about something so they can all 
laugh at me! I tell true truths, 
well-grasped, firmly and easily

and often enough right-sized 
and which-end up. If they end up 
funny, I wasn't. It's just how I see 
fit to deliver them cocked at a blithe,
oblique angle - precisely and accurately
as they exist in the world! Don't blame 

me 

if the world's peculiar. It is just.
Seems perfectly normal from where
I stand, but maybe I missed something
I wasn't privy to in your upbringing? Spill,
if so! I'm keen to know, but otherwise: go

find a corner and stand on your head,
not mine  
next time, sunshine.

dick

I'm sick of all the dick jokes 
this guy rich tells. He isn't 
even rich, he just tells people that
so he can make dick jokes 
and pretend they're not offensive. 
I don't even think he has a dick, 
but it's a non-issue, as I prefer
to honor his identification
as a dick. 

As a dick myself, 
I generally do. It's just easier, 
plus funny in an ironic way 
to respect people as whatever
they claim to be. No skin 
off mine, I note. Still, 

getting pretty sick of all 
the dick jokes, rich. Can you 
lend me fifty K? I'm thinking of 
starting up a venture capital firm, 
and money like that could give me 
ideas. No, I didn't think so. What 
did the dick say to the asshole?
How many dicks does it take 
to walk into a bar? A dick, 
a rabbi and a rabbit were out
in a rowboat. Probably 

overcompensating
for something

good working relationship

She was pretty sure one of us
wasn't a detective. How do you
figure that? I asked. Powers 
of observation, she quipped 
back. She had a face like 
an angle of light, and a body
like East Berlin. Whenever
she wasn't trouble, he knew
it. She made a big show 
of wearing clothes. Perhaps 
to make up for the other times.
She always had a case, but 
the business end was all wrong.
Didn't want it solved. Wouldn't
say what it was. The details 
rang out empty like a wrung-out
rag that hadn't seen water since
July, and with her, it was always
July. Miss July, they called her
and they weren't wrong. It was 
her last name. Mine was Destiny. 
Used to catch a hell of a lot
of kidding over that, but hell 
I was a kid. Kids can be mean, 
and I was the meanest. I grew up 
nice, but some streaks never
go away no matter how much
you scrub, or soak in bleach. 
When she walked in I was 
scrubbing and soaking as usual.
I gave her a nice smile. Should
I come back later? she queried, 
unsure? Sure, I said. She always
did.

a candle's worth of game

you and I 
agreed to try
for just this moment's short supply -
however long we'll make it stretch, 
between us 'til there's nothing left. 
The length of one wax cylinder.
It's fit and snug in socket, now
The wick is lit. The timer's on
in dripping down like sacred song.
In sketchy light we make our moves 

to see what we have here, to prove. 
And once we've guttered, spent in light
- in breathing dark, we'll know the weight 
of how much this was right. And then,
we might decide one candle's worth
is not too much to spend again.   

reasoned detachment

Stay where you are. If you
were closer, I would keep you
at arms length. Draw you in 
by closed eyes, there in the dark 
to embrace and kiss.

For in the light, too close
to deny, the inordinate,
exorbitant attention I would pay 
to scrutinize you minutely 
were you right here, always, 

no love could withstand 

- could it? My love of you 
would be blasted and withered 
in your presence, by your undeniable 
reality, in the disjoint and dissonance
between idea of you and you. 
In the pause wonder gives 
to all curious flaws and virtues 
contemplated, not noted before,

but here 
and now, 

impossible to deflect, gloss, or otherwise
miss. Unignorable, however ignoble
or glorious. Probably a bit of both,
in every bit of you taken point-blank
without quarter asked or deposited
as the game begins 

my love of you dies 

lives after lives

restarting at level one, each time
remade and alive in everything new 
and newly-known and recombined 
in my eyes - by your idea of me,
similarly mixed and combined,
falsified and refined. Grown
and growing alive 
in your eyes 

It could be disastrous, peril,
surprise 

the best-laid tropes

The spectacular failure 
of the most high-profile 
top-secret mission 
to outer space ever conceived, 
attempted or faked left all
of us here on the edge
of our seats, smoking
like fiends and deceased
in the wake of our crashed 
and shattered hopes. This team 
were all charming, cocky superstars 
destined against all odds to save 
our days, battling heroically against and with
omnidirectional sexual tension so thick
you could butter it, only to ram triumph
down the open maw of defeat
and gloat

But it didn't happen that way 
Something happened out there, and 
and it happened quick, so we'll never
know what. 'Cause the rays they supposed
themselves to save us from (so we'd supposed,
too) came down. It was obvious something
went wrong. We were all rendered drooling 
mutants, or charcoal effigies. Fork it

with a stick, boys 

this world is done

roving root cause

They say it's a bad neighborhood.
And it is, but what they know is 
the reason why it's a bad neighborhood
is me. I'm a bad neighbor. The worst. 
The one rotten apple that could disease 
and filth the whole orchard! When I 
showed up, property values dipped 
precipitously, and people began 
to shun their homes as much
as possible. Skulk into them 
or shoot in like darting varmints 
to use the bathroom. Once inside 
stay inside, no faces at windows. Gone 
are the old porch swing days and lemonades, 
neighborly greetings called out, stops for chats. 
Now it's eerie unease, and a feeling of disgust 
that it should come to this. That I should come 

to this
sweet bucolic idyllic halcyon 
of a beautiful-day neighborhood,
and with only my veriest presence 
to work with, turn it all bad, bad, 

bad. 

Don't worry, folks. I'm just passing through.
I'll be passing through every time 
you see me. 

the problem of human habitation

suburbanites 
harbor a deep-seated fear 
of city streets and godforsaken
rural wilds, which is why
they dig mown lawns 
and the innocent carnival chimes
of the ice-cream man.
But nevertheless, their ghastly end 
comes
and comes,
and never stops coming
all the live-long days of their spaced 
out lives. Complacency kills 
like a case of pills and scotch. 

But society's ills do not 
stop there. 

Meanwhile, ruralites harbor 
a deathly phobia of breaking waves. 
So they tread very carefully, angling 
sideways, gently into the sea

to return again to the sea 
and become again dolphins
and starfish, the endless cycle  

in order to escape 
their repressive sexual mores. 
Only to be eaten by what else?
Morays, or something else
eelish at any rate - a sea serpent,
the selfsame death we scoffed 

as it approached - in numberless
surfacing humps - our becalmed
armada of ships and boats 

scheduled eventually to come in. 
Another sad ending, considering 
our hopes.   

The cityites, though -
Who knows? Make something up 

Something horrible, with a twist
of melancholy tragic to it, like
they deserved it, only no one could
deserve that, but 

they did. 

For living in the city. 

Whatever you make up is
the terrible made-up price
of such unnatural dwelling.
Wallowing in such rife places 
of kink, titillation and moral threat

Nobody could deserve it, but that's 
about what you're bound to get 

hacker as romantic archetype

Apparently, hackers 
can do anything the plot requires 
as long as it's done with screens
and wires, and tippy-tap fingers 
and clicky-clack keys 

That's a pretty distinguished knack, 
with ease! But there must be a point 

where sweat runs in rills
down brow's anxiety-furrowed hills 
'cause the moment has come 
where it must be pulled off 

and there's some complication 
to suss, but soft 

same beans

It's always jelly beans 
in the huge glass jar, 
and you have to guess 
how many there are. 

It's a charity con. 
You pay for a chance, 
and I guess if you won 
you would shit your pants

conspiracy from hell?

A forest fire 
could provide a good analogy. 
But there have been far too many 
of those, lately - how about a warehouse
fire? And, make it an evil warehouse. 
Or what about an evil corporate 
headquarters? And how come 

so many of them don't burn down? 

Is it really that fire-prevention measures, 
sprinklers, extinguishers, drills, emergency 
response and what-not - have gotten so 
sophisticated, so effective that giant 
monolithic buildings founded in evil
and housing evil simply can't be burnt? 

Burnt all the way, I mean. Burnt down. 

Or is it something more sinister, 
like Satan. Maybe Satan is in league
with heroes - the firefighters themselves! 
A devil's pact: "Here, you guys go, fight 

forest fires. Be heroes. I'll make sure 
this building here never burns down." 

I don't think it's something you could prove, 
but you notice nobody has disproved it. Or 
even denied it. Oh, except Satan

probably 

Satan denies everything. Preemptively 
and comprehensively, before even 
accused. 

Probably 

out of force of habit. Past a certain point, 
gotta be tiresome. Always the one 

being blamed. 

No one is really sure what happened

No one is really sure what happened 
in that last poem. Was he or she 
really that nice? That oblivious? 

Or did prey turn destroyer the moment 
the manipulative predators tightened 
the circle at just the inopportune moment, 
some juke, some jaunt, some bold and cruel
and entirely suspect reversal? 

Torn to pieces, all of them! In some grisly
ballet, moving in slow motion as if underwater
and breathing adrenaline? We can't gloat 
or revel in that - it was horrible what happened 
to them, or might have. On the other hand, 

for all we know, it was no act. And 
who was torn apart then? Nobody 

knows. No one 
is really sure

chump change

Change, chump. 
Change. Every con artist 
in the game has you marked 

out, set up on their prospect easel 
and is plotting a quick and easy
masterpiece. They're 

circling 'round
in converging arcs
like sharks fast approaching 
the frenzied feast, and you 

- blithe, naïve and doot-di-doo, 
stand in grinning and wide-eyed
sacrifice. Change, chump!

Change

this moment. Now 

This deal is about to come off 
quite nice. That grin of yours, almost
painfully dopey and sweet!

All hands on deck
and swept out to sea,

as the calmest day 
in a hundred Julys 

turns suddenly in its depths
to wrenching surprise

plot twister

What if there isn't one of us? 
What if at some climactic turn
it is revealed than one of us 
is the other's imaginary friend? 

Never existed, except as a sort of 
double-act. Half alter-ego, half 
hallucination? Which parts 
of my life have I been you, 
and vice-versa if so? How 

did we pull it all off, and 
never know? 

It's good to check
into these things 
to be sure. I know 

if it comes to the worst-case
scenario, we'll both have
wanted more

criminal decorum

It's true it was your turn, and 
you should have gone first, 
but you should have and didn't
so I went.  

And anyway, I am always the one
to panic and shoot the guard. It's my role.
How was I to know he'd call in sick? You 
were supposed to be crowd control, 

I planned this thing perfectly.
It was explicit in the plan
that nothing go wrong.
I emphasized that point
several times, all through. It's 
not my problem we make such 
a hash of it. It's okay. You 

did the best you could.

I'm sorry, I'm not mad - just
sorry. Well we both are, there's
an end of it. We'll do it better next time,
agreed? But first - whose turn is it
to do the prison break

I have an idea 

This time you plan,
and I'll fuck it up 

The calculator

I'm more cunning than most people 
know, or would believe. It's because
I am so willfully naïve, I'll always 

act as if the best most harmless possible
things are true, of what you've done 

or said. "Best possible," mind you. 
I don't make stuff up, I go with 
what I get. I just don't make up 
your mind for you out of mine. If 
the plain literal or other legitimate
sense of your words could be inoffensive,

Gotcha. I'll respond from there.   

It's a trick. I do it because it's the easiest
way not to mess with your head, and  
whatever's in it. Take you for real. 

As real, and give it back like an invitation.
So, you know, people are like

"This guy's not cunning."

Well, I don't blame them. Fact is, 
I put scant to nil to lil' emphasis 
on how cunningly I wend my ways 
and work my wiles and tend my 
ever-wiser and wizening bias. No one 
would suspect how suspicious I am 
underneath, in my reckonings
and calculations, imagined motives 
ringing your head like a vector array 
halo, because I dismiss those nasty things
all blithe. To respond from the best
you are, which I know full well
you could be, or maybe not. 

We'll see, I reckon. A cunning trick, 

but pretty fair, on balance. I do it 

to everybody, and they swallow it 
like a glass full of light, half-full
of water when your throat's so parched 
it's like it has taste buds all down it, 
dying for the no-taste of truth. 

And swallowing, thirst coming full 
to relief, they think "Is that really 
what this poor sweet fool thinks 
of me?" And "Could I really
get away with it?"

I'm open to finding out

your kiss and everything else

The greatest thing about us
is your kiss. And everything else
leading up to it, and everything else
leading on is grown and strewn
and renewed in these four lips,
made one in moments chanced
and charmed. Made to exist.

stillness even still

I saw a shriek, 

a groan pass by 

in silence under 

watchful eye.

A laugh was lying 
on the ground, prostrate 
still without a sound. 

Then a song took up 
my hand, and led me on 
through hush and lull. 

Through it all I felt 

a sigh, but made 
no sigh. The emptiness
 
was still too full. 

coincidence is

Coincidence is fate, we two 
were bound to disagree on this, 
plus any other area nonoverlap 
between exists.

But where we were by nature,
essence, inclination bound
to find and come together,
share, agree: coincidence is
quite a different kind. 

For so we coincide. In place, 
in time, in angle, view - I see 
that I could never help but find
within wherein with you. Where we
have chanced to coincide,

and so agree. Perchance exult,
or stray.

It is as if coincidence
was only always just the way. 

failed embrace

You said you thought we might as well 
be in love, for all we feel.
Make it worth the hassle. 
What you call it makes it real, 
that was your theory 

Sounded worth a test to me,

So we reached 
and we missed 
and we flailed
and caught, 
and fell. 

my dotage

Because of my childishness, I think 
by age 9 I had entered upon my dotage. 
I would dote on the world, people, 
examining, pondering fondly - this 
was a puzzle I could figure out. I spoiled
to get what people wanted of me, so I
could best decide what to give. Which
I never did, figure it out - so I've simply
kept doting! I dote to the left, dote to the right
- people don't even realize that's what it is
I'm doing. I don't think, but I dote, dote, dote 
like a dotard. I am fond of. It's what's always
worked for me. A precocious dotard, but 
I suspect one day I'll find it catching up 
to me. If so, I will greet it 
affectionately.

isolationism

If you need a product 
advertised in a wack-ass infomercial 
just to have friends over 
without being embarrassed by pet stains 
and odors, get new friends yo. I have gone 
over many friends houses, many times 
and I have never once embarrassed 
my friend over this. It's absurd. People 
who can't deal with the vicissitudes 
and peccadilloes of nature 
in the house 
for those who want it there, and 
derive a humanly-relatable level 
of solace and comfort from its 
natural presence 

can go pound sand. Those prissy 
meticulous individuals should seal 
themselves in plastic, cut off 
from all humankind and everything else 
that smells. Their plight 

would be so sad then. You would want 
to comfort and solace them, but 

there would be no way

conflict of similars

Underconceived and overwrought, 
wherever we've gone, we've only 
fought. We think through too little 
and make too much. So finely-turned, 
with an artist's touch. 

your chin

Your chin 
is unspeakably cute 
in the way it tidily 
winds up your cheeks
and jaw, and supports 
your insupportable 
grin.

the catch

Love has 

innumerable duties, 
but I cannot name any
single one 

'til I saw you. 

Duty stirs, rises, 

responds to some call, 

but not in advance. 

I cannot love
an abstract human 
being. It's the particulars
that catch, and
they do so 

particularly. 

unoutcome

Some decisions are not turnoutable 

like others. The decision is made.

But it cannot be outcomed. Nothing 

happens

due to some weird
inconsequence deal. It's not 
usual, but sometimes what 

you do 
doesn't turn out
the way you expect.

Yet the last thing you expect is

it doesn't turn out at all. You 
sit there, waiting 

for the equal and opposite 
reaction, or at least necessary 
and inevitable consequence, or 

something
something

nothing.  

So you do it again 

on her majesty's

She is on her majesty's 
public service. Her own 
majesty, that is. A wicked
bit of espionage, pretending
to be who and what she is. 
And all are fooled; succumb. 
And she gets done what she 
gets done. She's saved the world
in personal ways. It's just how 
she must do, some days. 

the say.

Between two who love, who shall say
what play is foul? Only they.
Where two say yes, the world
has no say no.

It is allowed to, though.
Such say is dumb. No force,
no harm. A guess, and wrong
as it turns out.

We're free to go and free to set,
this is our song. In knowing yes
for only us, we make
what we're about.

The 100 Invincible Daughters of Shaolin

Shaolin Jones had 100 daughters
and he taught them all kung fu
'cause he had to. It was a hard world
they'd been born into. Shao felt
responsible for a thing like that.

Anyway
they got real good,
even to the point you might
say they were invincible. Then

some bad shit happened

- their teacher was killed, and
they had to take revenge, except
oh snap. The killers were

the 100 moms.

Turns out in some respects
he had it coming, arguably
true. But man o man that
man was one hell
of a teacher,

at least of kung fu. 

healing is about

healing is about
changing the way
you reimagine yourself
in relation to who you are, 
and why. Taking the pain 
and trauma as a point of 
departure. Not leaving it 
behind, just letting it go 
be in the past where it 
is already. The past is 
part of you, but you 
don't have to be it
anymore 

chainsawing

The rattling bite runs up one's arm 
in shaken blood and nervous swarm,
but skin stays whole, and mind controlled
as every balanced aim unfolds in total cold
and pulsing flesh. So easily, could be
such mess. A knee sawn off, a finger
strewn. A gap to spray - please give it
room! I almost feel the need of fail.
Of injury - as wood resists, I swing
hard flail, press push to it where
calculated force has bit, and hushed
its rasp, and forced it through. So splintered
tender greens and shoots sprout blistering
from limbs and roots! Still trying to 
remember calm, and do. In just about
desired strokes,

I make the harsh sense I intend

of this minuscule wilderness. In majuscule,
my will is writ and bent. Thus some demented
artist (me) makes bold: improve upon a tree.
I hate this kind of hubris, folks. I warp 
and weft and wend in brutal strokes. 

And yet as if it weren't distaste, stand back.
My hopes so won, so disappointed. Spent.
Upon such waste of wood and leaf so fallen
now. So empty now, in front of it. This task 
behind, I have made fit.

And proud, and trembling like a leaf. I have 
had done. It's some relief. Contemptibly,
I'm proud of it. 

It feels no less than permanent.  

one's companions

She stood up like a penis,
unfolding herself lazily 
languidly and as if unawares,
stretched herself. Shook 
just a bit. Yawned, an effort.
Spanked herself on the fundament
once, totally unselfconscious
(one never really knows 
about such things) as if
to get herself in gear,
pretend-riled up, and left 
like the hole she left. 
Like the cup and plate
of crumbs she left. And I,
who all the time she was there 
had noticed she was there,
random along with several 
random others, had not noticed
who she was, there. Or why,
and will never know now. 
How could I?

composure

The devil's in the details; 
there's angels in the aspects.
There's people in the means 
and ends and man, the whole 
thing's hapless.

But if you figure out your part
then move on to the next one,
you can connect from dot to dot
and make some picture dizzy up 
enough to make the effort worth 
the heartwring and the headspun. 

wombful of puppies

I had a dream I was in
a wombful of puppies
and it made no sense.
I could sense these dudes
packed loosely in and around
like beans were puppies.

But I was a fetal
human
being. 

Then the cosmic bitch mind
intoned: "Unso. You died 
and have been reincarnated, yo.
You have only this choice:
assume puppy form 

Or return to unbeing,
no more to be born." 

But I said, what about
this fetus I am? I can 
feel the toes. I can feel
the hands. These are 
not puppylike as
appendages go.

Will momma dog
not be traumatized 
to see such dead baby
as me in the mix 
sliding out when
my puppy sibs arrive?

"Unso" intoned
the cosmic bitch mind.
"We've got all that covered,
you'll see and find. Or if
you choose otherwise,
you'll see what I mean." 

It was not a dream. 

It was not a dream. 

Lime sherbet

Lime sherbet 
sweet and cold

thick and melty, 
tart and bold 
is so refreshing 
down the throat
but doesn't taste 

that good, you'll 
note. 

load mode

It's clicking in I think.
Not yet - it doesn't fit 
yet into words. It's rising
up and riding in, it's 
coming down in full 
reverse from all around,
or somewhere close. So far
this moment traveled here
to now. To me. This is some
thing I've always known,
eventually. Somehow
- or always had
to know, but not 

epiphany 

just yet. Just never
yet. So far, so good
I've got along - I had
it once? Did I forget?
Or is this new? It feels 
like something never 
known. I didn't 
find this focus yet,
on what this is

I've almost got
to call my own. 

Advisory

This presentation has been rated 
for violence, implied violence,
implied nude violence, foul
language, adult situations,
childish language, language
violence, childish violence,
mature perspectives, foul violence, 
nonsexual violence, surprise, 
foul surprise, implied nonsexual
gratuity (foul), violent language,
nonsexual nudity, nonconsensual
language, gratuitous dream sequence,
unrealistic twist ending, plot hole
violence, and graphically-explicit
penetrative language. Parents 
are advised to responsibly 
wait a few years. Examine 
and discuss their attitudes 
towards these issues, and 
enjoy the show. Non-parents 
are advised to take warning 
and use their judgment 
responsibly. If it makes 
any difference, the nudity 
is all quite beautiful, the violence
is largely balletic, and the language 
is not English. Sorry

"free verse blues"

Well, anyone can do it. In the old days
of triolets and villanelles, the readership
knew the rules and could judge them well,
and be impressed. A competent versifier
could win praise without moving anyone,
really. They could all see for themselves
how hard it is. “I couldn’t do that.”

Some people need to be impressed
by art, before they can be moved. If
it looks like something they could do
themselves, there’s uncomfortable
accusation there. Why don’t they?
Why aren’t we all poets, then? 

Free verse has no such outs. No shortcuts
to impress, to catch and wow by meticulous
use. No structure, no set forms. 

No safety net, no trapeze, no tightrope.
Takes one hell of an acrobat to please
and impress just vaulting about freely
on the ground. But some of them can
fly. 

I say there are excellent free verse poems,
as good as any rhymed. Better, maybe.
Lack of structure and forms means you
must invent your own in every poem
To captivate, transport or move
the reader
with only your chosen words
alone.

people respond to babies

The reason people respond to babies is 

this little being
is hanging out, carried around
in a padded jumper that seems like
it should immobilize their limbs.

Face poking out all smooth cheeks, 
mouth composed, unimpressed 
and eyes - just looking.

A calm peer. This kid's gone past
trying to figure things out. Maybe
in the first few weeks, some protest -
having recently been removed
from a perfectly satisfactory state!
By now, they've discovered there's
satisfaction here more or less. 
Including the purest rage on earth 
- an infant protesting discomfort! 

In this moment though, comfort
is go. No impositions or outrages.
Not cranky or hungry or tired just:
looking. Not even to understand.
Just take it in, maybe squirm, turn
one's head away from some big huge
interloper but otherwise: a sort of
default astonished receptivity.

"Things making sense" is a social construct 
this one has yet to imbibe. A lot of us 

responding to babies, it's not so much 
"oh, I remember that" (we don't) it's 

Yeah. You pretty much got it kid. 
That's about all it is

dangers of shapeshifting

If clouds never changed their shape, just 
the same ones cycling by on whatever
day's breeze, they all would be famous
by now. They all would have names 
and stories. Mythologies.