Monday, October 24, 2016

Renteria was great
bc he could drop
a Texas leaguer shallow
or drive a liner
over the fence,
not to mention his leather!
Not to mention
his basepath instincts!
Not to mention his
clubhouse presence!

Nate Drexler adds:

Edgar could really move.
He moved his hips
crisply through the zone
giving him the much-needed torque
to line a triple into the gap.
Speaking of that,
he really moved around those bases!
Frequently stretching doubles
into clutch, two-out triples.
But perhaps no move of Edgar’s
was quite as profound
As his move from Florida to STL
where he moved us all.

• • •

the future of love

Friday, October 21, 2016

This were a poem about
miscoordinated verbs: How they
informs our life just by
being who they is.

I once love a woman
names Marylou. I did not dared
makes one false move.
Even in the future, she knew.

When will I met her? It
were unclear, but someday, someday,
with roses and greeting cards
I has announced my love.

Children, do not followed
my pathway to here.
It will have led me
to such deep despair.

• • •

aunt collyn

Thursday, October 13, 2016

She’s ninety-two
and feeling blue—
not quite as “all this
and Heaven, too?”

as one might feel
gazing at fields
in harvest time
or sitting down to a meal

in the Hearth Room,
but in a sterile room,
her body now
a waking tomb

of aches and pains
as its strength wanes,
family and friends,
beeping machines

and medicine
and evening hymns;
the focus now
is Heaven.

• • •

joy to joy

Thursday, September 29, 2016

How luv chart started was, one day
they were losing track:

Each spike and doldrum went unrecorded
like spikes and whorls of both

flowers and fingerprints. Ah yes,
she was like, “My sepals and stipules

you’ve trended into; let’s set aside ‘luv
chart’ more for dear memory’s

sake than for our land’s, before
we were the land—” Again, the man

replied, I will draw it. Daily will
I mark it. You do your part and so far

no big complaints from either party.
“If fear, or pain, or grief be thy

portion, go back deep in mirror
and remember me there, therefore

the touch, the white, white teeth,
and the frivolous crest of hair.”

• • •


Wednesday, September 14, 2016

A man had got his truck stuck.
He’d been trying to maneuver it
to turn it around and got its back
wheels spun up against a steep bank
where they just spun. He rocked
the truck as he’d been taught,
forth and back, but nothing worked.
“Hey mister” said a kid across the street.
“Maybe I can get my pop to push?”
The man shook his neck: “Not
worth a heck, this old pickup—
not worth your old pap’s sweat.”
The boy walked on. Dawn
was just about on them. The man
jumped down and walked to town.
What was his plan? He hadn’t one.

• • •

ah yes

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

I have a date tonight with a version
of myself that’s 5 IQ points higher
and talks 10% faster. His

name is Aaron Belz, and he works
at a love clinic outside Fresno.
You ask, what’s outside Fresno?

So I’ll tell you, it’s the 99,
and it goes up to Modesto.
Anyway, my date was garbage, because

I couldn’t follow what I was saying,
and I kept crying on and off
like a girl. Well, I say “girl,”

but I mean perfect human who has no
flaws, and no, Belz tells me (or informs
us, as in the case of this poem),

that isn’t redundant, but then
I started sobbing again. It’s like
one guy can’t contain all the sweetness

and smartness and hope and happiness
he was given, so he’s two guys, one
just a titch smarter—kind of like,

well, to be honest, your mom.
And your FACE. I’m sorry to be shooting
so straight with you here at the end.




the cop carnival

Thursday, September 1, 2016

There’s going to be a cop carnival
in Cape Canaveral tomorrow, they say.
Police clowns fired out of cannon into orbit,
they say, even if the day is gray. Hooray!

My favorite police clown is called Trixie.
She works at a Kinko’s in Kirkwood, Missouri
and makes jokes like, “Wave at the tide,
and the tide’ll wave back.” Tidal wave, lol.

As for me I rarely attend such events anymore.
I’m not even sure what they’re for. It feels
as though life has closed its enormous, medieval
door to me the way it has to the poor.

I’d like to go backward in time, but I can’t.
I’d like to go backstage and meet Adam Ant.
I wish I were less of an unwatered plant.
I wish I had shirts that weren’t Arrow or Gant.




after ari banias

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

With all the news about mustard lately
(how to apply it, and to what kind of food)
I’m happy to be convalescing at Dead Man Acres
where the slogan is “We can’t stand fakers!”

Only Dijon, then, in my porridge,
poured delicately from a porcelain gravy boat;
only French’s Yellow slathered willy-nilly
across my pillow before lights-out.

And I am thankful for the sauerbraten I eyed
in the pantry as well as for those who fought & died
as well as for Elmer Gantry by Sinclair Lewis,
an author who really “knows where the food is”

(another slogan here at the rest home).
Come to think of it, it isn’t the best tome,
but it’s right up there with Martin Chuzzlewit.
Reading books makes my head buzz a bit.

• • •

more proof

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

“What are you smoking?” you ask.
What am I smoking?! Just for fun,
Let’s ask several not entirely
unrelated questions: What’s
your mom smoking? OK, just one.
One more: What aren’t I smoking?

Answer: Everything. I amn’t smoking
everything nor even, as chance
would have it and integrity demands
one confess, anything. I’m vaping
some humidity I distilled into Gerber
jars last time I was at your mom’s.

She asked me what I was smoking
and I answered in kind: her answer?
Clear as Pennsylvania moonlight,
it was, and sharp as reverse syntax:
“Smoking everything, I am.” Sweet
as Virginia ham; thick as an IRS fax.

• • •


Friday, August 26, 2016

Occasionally some of your
visitors may see
an advertisement here.

You can hide these ads
by upgrading to
one of our paid plans.

• • •