Jims Poems
Jims Poems Nov 2011
Dec 01 2011
The Secret Life of Jesus #4
On the first Christmas Eve,
Mary was in labor
A good many hours
Before Jesus was born.
Jesus was sorry
But who could blame Him
For taking his time.
He knew what to expect
When he saw the light of day,
And it wasn’t gold,
Frankincense or myrrh.
Lonesome Cowboy
A cowboy in Wyoming
Was shooting stars
To while away the time
Around the campfire.
He missed at first
But after adjusting his sights,
He started shooting them down
Like bottles on a fence.
They’d drop and flame out
And go dark,
Far out on the range.
The cowboy didn’t care,
Which was a shame.
Stars fall out
Of the sky’s pocket
A signal of something.
They should be gathered up
Like dead dreams
And autumn leaves.
Stars should be given
A proper burial.
The Secret Life of Jesus #8
When Jesus was born
All Mary wanted
Was a little sleep.
But company kept coming over.
Shepherds and Magi,
The innkeeper and his wife,
A host of barnyard animals.
Jesus was very tiny,
Mostly interested
In keeping warm
And eating his next meal.
Joseph was pleased and proud.
He marveled at
The little fingers and toes,
The incredible lightness of the child,
The incredible weight
Of his new responsibilities.
He wondering how he was going
To keep his family fed.
Jesus could have told him, of course,
But that’s just not
The baby way.
Heracles and the Amazons
Heracles stands frozen
In a fight with Amazons
On an urn
At the Legion of Honor Museum.
His black sinews bulge
On a background of rust colored pottery,
The three Amazons hectoring him
Right and left
With drawn swords.
I ask myself
Who painted these myths
With such precision,
The protaganists circling the urn,
Heracles’ eyes aflame
With masculine rage.
As the Amazons toy with him.
But isn’t that always the way?
Men thrashing beneath
The taunts of women
Like maddened animals
At the bullfights.
I don’t remember how the myth worked out.
Did Heracles fend off the women,
Or did they slay him?
I suspect they all left the field of battle,
Licking their wounds,
Like a paint brush on a vase,
For here they all are,
Thousands of years later,
Daggers drawn
Around a Grecian urn,
Where Heracles still stands at last,
Like all old men,
An exile from the past.
On the first Christmas Eve,
Mary was in labor
A good many hours
Before Jesus was born.
Jesus was sorry
But who could blame Him
For taking his time.
He knew what to expect
When he saw the light of day,
And it wasn’t gold,
Frankincense or myrrh.
Lonesome Cowboy
A cowboy in Wyoming
Was shooting stars
To while away the time
Around the campfire.
He missed at first
But after adjusting his sights,
He started shooting them down
Like bottles on a fence.
They’d drop and flame out
And go dark,
Far out on the range.
The cowboy didn’t care,
Which was a shame.
Stars fall out
Of the sky’s pocket
A signal of something.
They should be gathered up
Like dead dreams
And autumn leaves.
Stars should be given
A proper burial.
The Secret Life of Jesus #8
When Jesus was born
All Mary wanted
Was a little sleep.
But company kept coming over.
Shepherds and Magi,
The innkeeper and his wife,
A host of barnyard animals.
Jesus was very tiny,
Mostly interested
In keeping warm
And eating his next meal.
Joseph was pleased and proud.
He marveled at
The little fingers and toes,
The incredible lightness of the child,
The incredible weight
Of his new responsibilities.
He wondering how he was going
To keep his family fed.
Jesus could have told him, of course,
But that’s just not
The baby way.
Heracles and the Amazons
Heracles stands frozen
In a fight with Amazons
On an urn
At the Legion of Honor Museum.
His black sinews bulge
On a background of rust colored pottery,
The three Amazons hectoring him
Right and left
With drawn swords.
I ask myself
Who painted these myths
With such precision,
The protaganists circling the urn,
Heracles’ eyes aflame
With masculine rage.
As the Amazons toy with him.
But isn’t that always the way?
Men thrashing beneath
The taunts of women
Like maddened animals
At the bullfights.
I don’t remember how the myth worked out.
Did Heracles fend off the women,
Or did they slay him?
I suspect they all left the field of battle,
Licking their wounds,
Like a paint brush on a vase,
For here they all are,
Thousands of years later,
Daggers drawn
Around a Grecian urn,
Where Heracles still stands at last,
Like all old men,
An exile from the past.
Embarcadero
Aug 01 2011
Embarcadero
It’s getting hard to wrap
My mind around my mind.
I’m sitting at the Embarcadero,
Inhaling saltwater inspiration.
Sunglazed Californians debark
From Sausalito ferries.
Grey pigeons wander
Beneath my feet,
Searching for food.
Maybe all of us are pigeons,
Waiting for food to turn up,
Scavenging our surroundings
For crumbs of meaning
Beneath a chorus
Of screeching gulls.
I embrace the Embarcadero.
I like the name, evocative
Of my next departure.
The sound of the name
Glides on hopeful waters,
Waters that lead to adventures
On other shores.
The Bay Bridge is clean,
Painted with a razor on blue sky,
The five o’clock sun
Falling just right on the tops
Of eighteen wheelers,
Crawling to San Francisco
Like savage pilgrims
From Oakland.
That sailboat below the cliffs
Of Treasure Island,
The distant bells of cable cars,
Are miles away. I have no idea
Why I’m sitting at the Embarcadero.
But it’s my kind of place,
Full of edges and water,
Bringing messages
From across the sea.
Bells in the tower
Chime the hour,
And it’s time to awaken
From daydreams
On the waterfront.
With sorrow I shrug
And let the moment go,
Like another pigeon
With nothing to show
For his hour alone
At the Embarcadero.
It’s getting hard to wrap
My mind around my mind.
I’m sitting at the Embarcadero,
Inhaling saltwater inspiration.
Sunglazed Californians debark
From Sausalito ferries.
Grey pigeons wander
Beneath my feet,
Searching for food.
Maybe all of us are pigeons,
Waiting for food to turn up,
Scavenging our surroundings
For crumbs of meaning
Beneath a chorus
Of screeching gulls.
I embrace the Embarcadero.
I like the name, evocative
Of my next departure.
The sound of the name
Glides on hopeful waters,
Waters that lead to adventures
On other shores.
The Bay Bridge is clean,
Painted with a razor on blue sky,
The five o’clock sun
Falling just right on the tops
Of eighteen wheelers,
Crawling to San Francisco
Like savage pilgrims
From Oakland.
That sailboat below the cliffs
Of Treasure Island,
The distant bells of cable cars,
Are miles away. I have no idea
Why I’m sitting at the Embarcadero.
But it’s my kind of place,
Full of edges and water,
Bringing messages
From across the sea.
Bells in the tower
Chime the hour,
And it’s time to awaken
From daydreams
On the waterfront.
With sorrow I shrug
And let the moment go,
Like another pigeon
With nothing to show
For his hour alone
At the Embarcadero.
Paul Revere
Aug 01 2011
Paul Revere
After Paul Revere warned
The people of Boston,
He kept on riding,
Down to New York City, crying
“The bankers are coming,
The bankers are coming.”
But the people of New York
Were sleeping, or pretending to,
And soon Manhattan was infiltrated
By bankers, and brokers,
And scoundrels of every stripe.
So Paul Revere rode on,
Rode through the night
And through the next day,
Rode to Philadelphia,
Where the Continental Congress
Were gathered.
“The bankers are coming,
The bankers are coming!”
He cried, “and soon
They will own America,
And its politicians, too!”
But they just stared back
In amusement and said,
“They already do.”
After Paul Revere warned
The people of Boston,
He kept on riding,
Down to New York City, crying
“The bankers are coming,
The bankers are coming.”
But the people of New York
Were sleeping, or pretending to,
And soon Manhattan was infiltrated
By bankers, and brokers,
And scoundrels of every stripe.
So Paul Revere rode on,
Rode through the night
And through the next day,
Rode to Philadelphia,
Where the Continental Congress
Were gathered.
“The bankers are coming,
The bankers are coming!”
He cried, “and soon
They will own America,
And its politicians, too!”
But they just stared back
In amusement and said,
“They already do.”
Barbie (For Claude) When Claude bought his house, His wife had room to unpack Her collection of Barbie dolls, And I tried to imagine them In their infinite, pink variety. Not just plastic, model-slim, Rodeo Drive Barbie’s, But real life Barbie’s, With other possibilities. Soccer mom Barbie With her SUV and a stack Of good report cards. Trailer trash Barbie With a few extra pounds, A broken tooth, And screaming, plastic kids. Dumb as dirt Barbie With her jaw hung low. Kept woman Barbie With lots of jewelry, And a half dead rich guy To play with In a tiny wheel chair (Sold separately.) And then I got creative. Barbie in her 80’s With an accessory botox kit, Barbie with her own tanning box, And Barbie with tattoos And little piercings Not suitable for children Under eight. Anchor woman Barbie In her TV studio, Her face and make-up melting Under the little hot lights. Third World Barbie, Complete with little sacks of meal And kids that would fit In your pocket. Fitness Barbie, Gleaming and wet From her exertions. Of course there were Barbie the doctor Barbie the lawyer Senator Barbie Barbie the corporate CEO With her tiny Leer Jet And all the feminist promises Of power and style. Barbie the bowler, Barbie the figure skater Miss America cheerleader Barbie Barbie the movie star Barbie the cowgirl Barbie the lesbian. Amputee Barbie Acne Barbie, With a jar Of Barbie cream. Barbie the bag lady With tiny dirty socks. Barbie the prison inmate Barbie the virgin Barbie the wife Barbie the mother Barbie the adultress Barbie the whore Complete with little Anatomically correct Sex toys. Barbie the hairless cancer patient With wigs like thimbles. Barbie on a mortician’s slab Barbie the surfer Barbie the nudist Sold without accessories Except for tiny flip flops And a purple mask. And I thought to myself Who is Barbie anyway? Is Barbie a soldier Returned from war Struggling to fit in? Why does she smile No matter what? Barbie the waitress With a tiny four a.m. alarm And sturdy shoes. Barbie strung out on meth. Barbie in drag Lady Macbeth Barbie. Why doesn’t Barbie Just slow down? Grandma Barbie With fake teeth Mastectomy Barbie Divorced Barbie Welfare Barbie Battered Barbie. First Lady Barbie, Radical Barbie, Realtor Barbie. Junior High Barbie, Dressed like An overstuffed sausage. Hairless Barbie Jungle Barbie Taliban Barbie The Widow Barbie. Morning-after Barbie. Barbie with too many choices. Barbie with no choice at all. Like a matryoshka doll, Dreams nesting inside dreams, Barbie unveils herself, Smiling, Smooth, Hard.
Jun 30 2011
Barbie
When Claude bought his house,
His wife had room to unpack
Her collection of Barbie dolls,
And I tried to imagine them
In their infinite, pink variety.
Not just plastic, model-slim,
Rodeo Drive Barbie’s,
But real life Barbie’s,
With other possibilities.
Soccer mom Barbie
With her SUV and a stack
Of good report cards.
Trailer trash Barbie
With a few extra pounds,
A broken tooth,
And screaming, plastic kids.
Dumb as dirt Barbie
With her jaw hung low.
Kept woman Barbie
With lots of jewelry,
And a half dead rich guy
To play with
In a tiny wheel chair
(Sold separately.)
And then I got creative.
Barbie in her 80’s
With an accessory botox kit,
Barbie with her own tanning box,
And Barbie with tattoos
And little piercings
Not suitable for children
Under eight.
Anchor woman Barbie
In her TV studio,
Her face and make-up melting
Under the little hot lights.
Third World Barbie,
Complete with little sacks of meal
And kids that would fit
In your pocket.
Fitness Barbie,
Gleaming and wet
From her exertions.
Of course there were
Barbie the doctor
Barbie the lawyer
Senator Barbie
Barbie the corporate CEO
With her tiny Leer Jet
And all the feminist promises
Of power and style.
Barbie the bowler,
Barbie the figure skater
Miss America cheerleader Barbie
Barbie the movie star
Barbie the cowgirl
Barbie the lesbian.
Amputee Barbie
Acne Barbie,
With a jar
Of Barbie cream.
Barbie the bag lady
With tiny dirty socks.
Barbie the prison inmate
Barbie the virgin
Barbie the wife
Barbie the mother
Barbie the adultress
Barbie the whore
Complete with little
Anatomically correct
Sex toys.
Barbie the hairless cancer patient
With wigs like thimbles.
Barbie on a mortician’s slab
Barbie the surfer
Barbie the nudist
Sold without accessories
Except for tiny flip flops
And a purple mask.
And I thought to myself
Who is Barbie anyway?
Is Barbie a soldier
Returned from war
Struggling to fit in?
Why does she smile
No matter what?
Barbie the waitress
With a tiny four a.m. alarm
And sturdy shoes.
Barbie strung out on meth.
Barbie in drag
Lady Macbeth Barbie.
Why doesn’t Barbie
Just slow down?
Grandma Barbie
With fake teeth
Mastectomy Barbie
Divorced Barbie
Welfare Barbie
Battered Barbie.
First Lady Barbie,
Radical Barbie,
Realtor Barbie.
Junior High Barbie,
Dressed like
An overstuffed sausage.
Hairless Barbie
Jungle Barbie
Taliban Barbie
The Widow Barbie.
Morning-after Barbie.
Barbie with too many choices.
Barbie with no choice at all.
Like a matryoshka doll,
Dreams nesting inside dreams,
Barbie unveils herself,
Smiling,
Smooth,
Hard.
When Claude bought his house,
His wife had room to unpack
Her collection of Barbie dolls,
And I tried to imagine them
In their infinite, pink variety.
Not just plastic, model-slim,
Rodeo Drive Barbie’s,
But real life Barbie’s,
With other possibilities.
Soccer mom Barbie
With her SUV and a stack
Of good report cards.
Trailer trash Barbie
With a few extra pounds,
A broken tooth,
And screaming, plastic kids.
Dumb as dirt Barbie
With her jaw hung low.
Kept woman Barbie
With lots of jewelry,
And a half dead rich guy
To play with
In a tiny wheel chair
(Sold separately.)
And then I got creative.
Barbie in her 80’s
With an accessory botox kit,
Barbie with her own tanning box,
And Barbie with tattoos
And little piercings
Not suitable for children
Under eight.
Anchor woman Barbie
In her TV studio,
Her face and make-up melting
Under the little hot lights.
Third World Barbie,
Complete with little sacks of meal
And kids that would fit
In your pocket.
Fitness Barbie,
Gleaming and wet
From her exertions.
Of course there were
Barbie the doctor
Barbie the lawyer
Senator Barbie
Barbie the corporate CEO
With her tiny Leer Jet
And all the feminist promises
Of power and style.
Barbie the bowler,
Barbie the figure skater
Miss America cheerleader Barbie
Barbie the movie star
Barbie the cowgirl
Barbie the lesbian.
Amputee Barbie
Acne Barbie,
With a jar
Of Barbie cream.
Barbie the bag lady
With tiny dirty socks.
Barbie the prison inmate
Barbie the virgin
Barbie the wife
Barbie the mother
Barbie the adultress
Barbie the whore
Complete with little
Anatomically correct
Sex toys.
Barbie the hairless cancer patient
With wigs like thimbles.
Barbie on a mortician’s slab
Barbie the surfer
Barbie the nudist
Sold without accessories
Except for tiny flip flops
And a purple mask.
And I thought to myself
Who is Barbie anyway?
Is Barbie a soldier
Returned from war
Struggling to fit in?
Why does she smile
No matter what?
Barbie the waitress
With a tiny four a.m. alarm
And sturdy shoes.
Barbie strung out on meth.
Barbie in drag
Lady Macbeth Barbie.
Why doesn’t Barbie
Just slow down?
Grandma Barbie
With fake teeth
Mastectomy Barbie
Divorced Barbie
Welfare Barbie
Battered Barbie.
First Lady Barbie,
Radical Barbie,
Realtor Barbie.
Junior High Barbie,
Dressed like
An overstuffed sausage.
Hairless Barbie
Jungle Barbie
Taliban Barbie
The Widow Barbie.
Morning-after Barbie.
Barbie with too many choices.
Barbie with no choice at all.
Like a matryoshka doll,
Dreams nesting inside dreams,
Barbie unveils herself,
Smiling,
Smooth,
Hard.
When Claude bought his house,
His wife had room to unpack
Her collection of Barbie dolls,
And I tried to imagine them
In their infinite, pink variety.
Not just plastic, model-slim,
Rodeo Drive Barbie’s,
But real life Barbie’s,
With other possibilities.
Soccer mom Barbie
With her SUV and a stack
Of good report cards.
Trailer trash Barbie
With a few extra pounds,
A broken tooth,
And screaming, plastic kids.
Dumb as dirt Barbie
With her jaw hung low.
Kept woman Barbie
With lots of jewelry,
And a half dead rich guy
To play with
In a tiny wheel chair
(Sold separately.)
And then I got creative.
Barbie in her 80’s
With an accessory botox kit,
Barbie with her own tanning box,
And Barbie with tattoos
And little piercings
Not suitable for children
Under eight.
Anchor woman Barbie
In her TV studio,
Her face and make-up melting
Under the little hot lights.
Third World Barbie,
Complete with little sacks of meal
And kids that would fit
In your pocket.
Fitness Barbie,
Gleaming and wet
From her exertions.
Of course there were
Barbie the doctor
Barbie the lawyer
Senator Barbie
Barbie the corporate CEO
With her tiny Leer Jet
And all the feminist promises
Of power and style.
Barbie the bowler,
Barbie the figure skater
Miss America cheerleader Barbie
Barbie the movie star
Barbie the cowgirl
Barbie the lesbian.
Amputee Barbie
Acne Barbie,
With a jar
Of Barbie cream.
Barbie the bag lady
With tiny dirty socks.
Barbie the prison inmate
Barbie the virgin
Barbie the wife
Barbie the mother
Barbie the adultress
Barbie the whore
Complete with little
Anatomically correct
Sex toys.
Barbie the hairless cancer patient
With wigs like thimbles.
Barbie on a mortician’s slab
Barbie the surfer
Barbie the nudist
Sold without accessories
Except for tiny flip flops
And a purple mask.
And I thought to myself
Who is Barbie anyway?
Is Barbie a soldier
Returned from war
Struggling to fit in?
Why does she smile
No matter what?
Barbie the waitress
With a tiny four a.m. alarm
And sturdy shoes.
Barbie strung out on meth.
Barbie in drag
Lady Macbeth Barbie.
Why doesn’t Barbie
Just slow down?
Grandma Barbie
With fake teeth
Mastectomy Barbie
Divorced Barbie
Welfare Barbie
Battered Barbie.
First Lady Barbie,
Radical Barbie,
Realtor Barbie.
Junior High Barbie,
Dressed like
An overstuffed sausage.
Hairless Barbie
Jungle Barbie
Taliban Barbie
The Widow Barbie.
Morning-after Barbie.
Barbie with too many choices.
Barbie with no choice at all.
Like a matryoshka doll,
Dreams nesting inside dreams,
Barbie unveils herself,
Smiling,
Smooth,
Hard.
When Claude bought his house,
His wife had room to unpack
Her collection of Barbie dolls,
And I tried to imagine them
In their infinite, pink variety.
Not just plastic, model-slim,
Rodeo Drive Barbie’s,
But real life Barbie’s,
With other possibilities.
Soccer mom Barbie
With her SUV and a stack
Of good report cards.
Trailer trash Barbie
With a few extra pounds,
A broken tooth,
And screaming, plastic kids.
Dumb as dirt Barbie
With her jaw hung low.
Kept woman Barbie
With lots of jewelry,
And a half dead rich guy
To play with
In a tiny wheel chair
(Sold separately.)
And then I got creative.
Barbie in her 80’s
With an accessory botox kit,
Barbie with her own tanning box,
And Barbie with tattoos
And little piercings
Not suitable for children
Under eight.
Anchor woman Barbie
In her TV studio,
Her face and make-up melting
Under the little hot lights.
Third World Barbie,
Complete with little sacks of meal
And kids that would fit
In your pocket.
Fitness Barbie,
Gleaming and wet
From her exertions.
Of course there were
Barbie the doctor
Barbie the lawyer
Senator Barbie
Barbie the corporate CEO
With her tiny Leer Jet
And all the feminist promises
Of power and style.
Barbie the bowler,
Barbie the figure skater
Miss America cheerleader Barbie
Barbie the movie star
Barbie the cowgirl
Barbie the lesbian.
Amputee Barbie
Acne Barbie,
With a jar
Of Barbie cream.
Barbie the bag lady
With tiny dirty socks.
Barbie the prison inmate
Barbie the virgin
Barbie the wife
Barbie the mother
Barbie the adultress
Barbie the whore
Complete with little
Anatomically correct
Sex toys.
Barbie the hairless cancer patient
With wigs like thimbles.
Barbie on a mortician’s slab
Barbie the surfer
Barbie the nudist
Sold without accessories
Except for tiny flip flops
And a purple mask.
And I thought to myself
Who is Barbie anyway?
Is Barbie a soldier
Returned from war
Struggling to fit in?
Why does she smile
No matter what?
Barbie the waitress
With a tiny four a.m. alarm
And sturdy shoes.
Barbie strung out on meth.
Barbie in drag
Lady Macbeth Barbie.
Why doesn’t Barbie
Just slow down?
Grandma Barbie
With fake teeth
Mastectomy Barbie
Divorced Barbie
Welfare Barbie
Battered Barbie.
First Lady Barbie,
Radical Barbie,
Realtor Barbie.
Junior High Barbie,
Dressed like
An overstuffed sausage.
Hairless Barbie
Jungle Barbie
Taliban Barbie
The Widow Barbie.
Morning-after Barbie.
Barbie with too many choices.
Barbie with no choice at all.
Like a matryoshka doll,
Dreams nesting inside dreams,
Barbie unveils herself,
Smiling,
Smooth,
Hard.
You Know Who You Are
Jun 30 2011
You Know Who You Are
The smartest man in the room spoke up
With quotes from a famous book,
His listeners listened as hard as they could
Their ears were expecting audible food.
But sadly their heads just nodded and shook.
For all that they heard was--gobbledygook.
The smartest man was mystified,
As every face bore a troubled look
When he tried to explain whatever he said
The big words sailed over each puzzled head
For every listener mistook
His shining pearls for--gobbledygook.
The smartest man shuddered,
His voice quaked and shook.
For nary a listener understood
A word he said. A terrible mood
The atmosphere took,
As the room resounded with—gobbldygook.
And so the man who was terribly smart
Discovered that conversation was art,
That his wisdom articulate, forceful, and vain
Was not understood, unless he spoke plain.
And so polysyllables he forsook,
And no longer spoke—in gobbledygook.
The smartest man in the room spoke up
With quotes from a famous book,
His listeners listened as hard as they could
Their ears were expecting audible food.
But sadly their heads just nodded and shook.
For all that they heard was--gobbledygook.
The smartest man was mystified,
As every face bore a troubled look
When he tried to explain whatever he said
The big words sailed over each puzzled head
For every listener mistook
His shining pearls for--gobbledygook.
The smartest man shuddered,
His voice quaked and shook.
For nary a listener understood
A word he said. A terrible mood
The atmosphere took,
As the room resounded with—gobbldygook.
And so the man who was terribly smart
Discovered that conversation was art,
That his wisdom articulate, forceful, and vain
Was not understood, unless he spoke plain.
And so polysyllables he forsook,
And no longer spoke—in gobbledygook.
The Two Wise Men
Jun 30 2011
The Two Wise Men
Two wise men
Were arguing about life.
“Life is like a mountain,”
The first one said,
“For at first time moves slowly,
As you climb the mountain,
But as you climb down,
Time goes faster,
Just like life.”
“Life is like a valley,”
The second one said,
“For when you enter the valley,
Walking is easy,
But as you leave the valley,
Walking is hard.”
And then they argued
About whether it is better
To stand on a mountaintop,
Or in the center of the valley.
“You can see a long way
From a mountain,”
The first one said,
“But in the valley your vision
Is surrounded,
And you see nothing.”
“It is cool and verdant
In the valley,”
The second one said,
“For a valley is nurtured,
And teems with life.
The mountain top is cold and bare.
It will not sustain you.”
Then the two wise men
Looked around
And realized they were standing
In the middle of the desert,
And decided neither of them knew
What they were talking about.
Two wise men
Were arguing about life.
“Life is like a mountain,”
The first one said,
“For at first time moves slowly,
As you climb the mountain,
But as you climb down,
Time goes faster,
Just like life.”
“Life is like a valley,”
The second one said,
“For when you enter the valley,
Walking is easy,
But as you leave the valley,
Walking is hard.”
And then they argued
About whether it is better
To stand on a mountaintop,
Or in the center of the valley.
“You can see a long way
From a mountain,”
The first one said,
“But in the valley your vision
Is surrounded,
And you see nothing.”
“It is cool and verdant
In the valley,”
The second one said,
“For a valley is nurtured,
And teems with life.
The mountain top is cold and bare.
It will not sustain you.”
Then the two wise men
Looked around
And realized they were standing
In the middle of the desert,
And decided neither of them knew
What they were talking about.
Angel Wings
Jun 30 2011
Angel Wings
What if angels
Really have wings
Like a hummingbird,
Beating so fast
You can’t even see them?
The artists have the pictures
All wrong.
For angels hover, after all.
A crow cannot do that,
Which makes me wonder
Why you never see an angel
With the wings of a crow,
Or maybe a peacock’s,
Worthy of the angel’s splendor,
Or fabulous colored wings,
Like birds in the jungle,
Or butterfly wings,
With exploding reds and greens,
And yellows and oranges,
Fit for an Easter sunrise.
But no, it’s always
The wings of a dove grown large,
Great clouds of wings,
Fit to stuff the pillows of gods.
The wings are clean,
But boring as a stormless sea,
Perhaps it’s a forecast of heaven,
A little too boring for me.
What if angels
Really have wings
Like a hummingbird,
Beating so fast
You can’t even see them?
The artists have the pictures
All wrong.
For angels hover, after all.
A crow cannot do that,
Which makes me wonder
Why you never see an angel
With the wings of a crow,
Or maybe a peacock’s,
Worthy of the angel’s splendor,
Or fabulous colored wings,
Like birds in the jungle,
Or butterfly wings,
With exploding reds and greens,
And yellows and oranges,
Fit for an Easter sunrise.
But no, it’s always
The wings of a dove grown large,
Great clouds of wings,
Fit to stuff the pillows of gods.
The wings are clean,
But boring as a stormless sea,
Perhaps it’s a forecast of heaven,
A little too boring for me.
The Secret Life of Jesus #917
Jun 30 2011
The Secret Life of Jesus #917
Jesus decided to see a shrink.
He was having flashbacks
And bad dreams, and thought
He might have PTSD.
The shrink used hypnosis
To unlock repressed memories
Of long ago trauma,
Filled with suffering
And the wickedness of God.
It shed some light
On his addiction to love
And his wrath
In the face of evil.
Jesus thanked the shrink
And decided it might be time
To pay his Father a visit.
Jesus decided to see a shrink.
He was having flashbacks
And bad dreams, and thought
He might have PTSD.
The shrink used hypnosis
To unlock repressed memories
Of long ago trauma,
Filled with suffering
And the wickedness of God.
It shed some light
On his addiction to love
And his wrath
In the face of evil.
Jesus thanked the shrink
And decided it might be time
To pay his Father a visit.
The Secret Life of Jesus #461
Jun 30 2011
The Secret Life of Jesus #461
Jesus was hurting,
Dying for his Father’s sins.
His mind wished
He was far in the future,
Lying on a gurney,
Drifting off into
A less gruesome death.
But our parents have
Plans for us
Just as his Father
Had plans for Jesus.
After all, if a father
Can’t make plans for his Son,
Then what’s a father for?
Jesus was hurting,
Dying for his Father’s sins.
His mind wished
He was far in the future,
Lying on a gurney,
Drifting off into
A less gruesome death.
But our parents have
Plans for us
Just as his Father
Had plans for Jesus.
After all, if a father
Can’t make plans for his Son,
Then what’s a father for?
The Secret Life of Jesus #585
Jun 03 2011
The Secret Life of Jesus #585
Mary kept this scrapbook
Under her bed,
Full of clippings and remembrances,
Of Jesus’ early years.
He found her reading it one day.
There were pictures of Himself as a kid,
Riding a donkey, having a good time
At the wedding feast in Canaan.
Newspaper articles about
The commotion he caused
On one of his visits
To the temple.
A lock of his hair.
“How come you never showed me this?”
Jesus said. And Mary just smiled.
“I was saving it until you got older,” she said.
You’ll appreciate it
When you’re an old man.
Mary kept this scrapbook
Under her bed,
Full of clippings and remembrances,
Of Jesus’ early years.
He found her reading it one day.
There were pictures of Himself as a kid,
Riding a donkey, having a good time
At the wedding feast in Canaan.
Newspaper articles about
The commotion he caused
On one of his visits
To the temple.
A lock of his hair.
“How come you never showed me this?”
Jesus said. And Mary just smiled.
“I was saving it until you got older,” she said.
You’ll appreciate it
When you’re an old man.
The Secret Life of Jesus #657
Jun 03 2011
The Secret Life of Jesus #657
When Jesus was in his twenties
His friends were all getting tattoos,
So one day, after too much wine,
When He had a bit of the devil in him,
He decided to get one Himself.
There were so many choices,
He had trouble selecting a design.
Something discrete, He thought,
Maybe a tiny
Star of David.
But the man at the tattoo parlor
Told him to go home.
“You’d just regret it,”
The tat man said,
“If you ever decided
To change your religion.”
When Jesus was in his twenties
His friends were all getting tattoos,
So one day, after too much wine,
When He had a bit of the devil in him,
He decided to get one Himself.
There were so many choices,
He had trouble selecting a design.
Something discrete, He thought,
Maybe a tiny
Star of David.
But the man at the tattoo parlor
Told him to go home.
“You’d just regret it,”
The tat man said,
“If you ever decided
To change your religion.”
Lee Crook
Jun 03 2011
Lee Crook
Lee Crook was young and strong and earnest,
Newly wed with a new child,
He sang praises to his future
At church every Sunday.
But he had a job surveying
An Alaskan beach
In stormy weather.
A wave slapped him off the rocks
Into the cold sea.
He clung to a log growing colder
As a man ran across the peninsula
To find a boat.
The floating log was not enough.
His warmth gave out
And he slid meekly and quietly
Below the dark water.
The boat arrived but could not save him,
Helicopters flown by brave men
Could not save him.
He washed up later on a beach,
His face consumed by sand fleas.
I stared at his cheap coffin
And watched his widow weep,
Even as she smiled, convincing herself
Her husband was an angel now,
Convincing herself she should be happy.
All I could do was be silent,
Keeping dead words about a dead God
To myself.
“He’s gone and that’s all,”
I thought to myself.
Lee was just plain gone.
Lee Crook was young and strong and earnest,
Newly wed with a new child,
He sang praises to his future
At church every Sunday.
But he had a job surveying
An Alaskan beach
In stormy weather.
A wave slapped him off the rocks
Into the cold sea.
He clung to a log growing colder
As a man ran across the peninsula
To find a boat.
The floating log was not enough.
His warmth gave out
And he slid meekly and quietly
Below the dark water.
The boat arrived but could not save him,
Helicopters flown by brave men
Could not save him.
He washed up later on a beach,
His face consumed by sand fleas.
I stared at his cheap coffin
And watched his widow weep,
Even as she smiled, convincing herself
Her husband was an angel now,
Convincing herself she should be happy.
All I could do was be silent,
Keeping dead words about a dead God
To myself.
“He’s gone and that’s all,”
I thought to myself.
Lee was just plain gone.
Adoption
Jun 03 2011
Adoption
I’ve decided to befriend a dead person.
I will pick out a cemetery at random
And a tombstone at random
Preferably a very old one
With a barely readable name,
Perhaps a woman who died young,
Or a man crushed
In some unspeakable accident
Or a sainted nun, who died in her sleep.
Befriending the dead costs us nothing.
They can die no more
And will always be there for us.
They will never ask us for money,
Or uncomfortable love.
They will never deny us forgiveness,
Or say a critical word
Or yawn at tales
Told too many times
Of lost love
Or our travels ends.
Perhaps I will adopt more than one.
A man can never have
Too many friends.
I’ve decided to befriend a dead person.
I will pick out a cemetery at random
And a tombstone at random
Preferably a very old one
With a barely readable name,
Perhaps a woman who died young,
Or a man crushed
In some unspeakable accident
Or a sainted nun, who died in her sleep.
Befriending the dead costs us nothing.
They can die no more
And will always be there for us.
They will never ask us for money,
Or uncomfortable love.
They will never deny us forgiveness,
Or say a critical word
Or yawn at tales
Told too many times
Of lost love
Or our travels ends.
Perhaps I will adopt more than one.
A man can never have
Too many friends.
Schadenfreud
Jun 03 2011
Schadenfreud
Where does it come from,
Our willingness to tolerate
The suffering of others?
Whence comes the pleasure
Of our cruelties.
Whence comes the indifference of
The multitudes.
Does the sufferer own for us
Some part of ourselves
We’d rather not think about?
Does putting the pain of others
Out of sight and mind
Somehow spare us
An unwelcome fate?
The Iroquois would torture
Their victims with fire,
Prolonging agony and pain,
Falling easily to sleep
To the sound of cries and screams,
And so we take picnics to hangings
We watch victims at the stake.
As if it will make us live longer.
And not give us very bad dreams.
Where does it come from,
Our willingness to tolerate
The suffering of others?
Whence comes the pleasure
Of our cruelties.
Whence comes the indifference of
The multitudes.
Does the sufferer own for us
Some part of ourselves
We’d rather not think about?
Does putting the pain of others
Out of sight and mind
Somehow spare us
An unwelcome fate?
The Iroquois would torture
Their victims with fire,
Prolonging agony and pain,
Falling easily to sleep
To the sound of cries and screams,
And so we take picnics to hangings
We watch victims at the stake.
As if it will make us live longer.
And not give us very bad dreams.
Driving West Through Colorado
Jun 03 2011
Driving West Through Colorado
The distant mountain in front of us
Was barely moving,
Giving us the sense
Of going nowhere.
And maybe we were.
Until we stared
Out a side window,
At speeding fence posts
Barely discernable,
The road beneath our wheels reminding us
How fast time was really moving,
How the future was best observed
With peripheral vision.
And then the mountain was on top of us,
Swallowing us like minnows,
Thoughtless morsels
In the belly of a yawning fish,
We never saw coming.
I think about that trip to the mountain
Now and then.
About metaphors for life and death,
And the passage of time.
But mostly I think,
When I think at all,
About what lies
Beyond the mountains.
The distant mountain in front of us
Was barely moving,
Giving us the sense
Of going nowhere.
And maybe we were.
Until we stared
Out a side window,
At speeding fence posts
Barely discernable,
The road beneath our wheels reminding us
How fast time was really moving,
How the future was best observed
With peripheral vision.
And then the mountain was on top of us,
Swallowing us like minnows,
Thoughtless morsels
In the belly of a yawning fish,
We never saw coming.
I think about that trip to the mountain
Now and then.
About metaphors for life and death,
And the passage of time.
But mostly I think,
When I think at all,
About what lies
Beyond the mountains.
Neighborhood
Apr 20 2011
Neighborhood
I don’t know my neighbors.
I don’t know the man next door,
Who mows his lawn every Saturday.
I don’t know the lady up the street,
Who walks two greyhound dogs.
I don’t know the widow,
Who rarely steps outside,
Or the kids who set up
The lemonade stand every week.
I don’t know the politics
Of the guy with the flag on his lawn,
Or the college allegiance
Of the family with signs
That say “Go Buckeyes!”
I don’t know if the family
That dresses well and drives
Off every Sunday
Are churchgoers.
I don’t know the woman
Who walks with a limp
To the bus stop every morning,
Or the guy who strolls by
Every day with a brown paper bag.
I don’t know the couple
Who leave their Christmas tree
Up until April,
Or the woman who gets
UPS parcels three times a week.
I have all these neighbors.
But I don’t know them.
I don’t know my neighbors.
I don’t know the man next door,
Who mows his lawn every Saturday.
I don’t know the lady up the street,
Who walks two greyhound dogs.
I don’t know the widow,
Who rarely steps outside,
Or the kids who set up
The lemonade stand every week.
I don’t know the politics
Of the guy with the flag on his lawn,
Or the college allegiance
Of the family with signs
That say “Go Buckeyes!”
I don’t know if the family
That dresses well and drives
Off every Sunday
Are churchgoers.
I don’t know the woman
Who walks with a limp
To the bus stop every morning,
Or the guy who strolls by
Every day with a brown paper bag.
I don’t know the couple
Who leave their Christmas tree
Up until April,
Or the woman who gets
UPS parcels three times a week.
I have all these neighbors.
But I don’t know them.
Stormy Weather
Apr 20 2011
Stormy Weather
When those vast Midwestern
Thunderstorms struck
Terror in my boyhood heart,
I figured the lightning bolts
Were all for me,
But God was a bad shot,
Or maybe a sadistic outlaw,
Making me dance with his pistol
Outside the cantina.
It wasn’t until much, much later
That I realized the thunderbolts
Were all for somebody
In the next block
And my guilt revealed itself
As innocence
Gone wrong.
When those vast Midwestern
Thunderstorms struck
Terror in my boyhood heart,
I figured the lightning bolts
Were all for me,
But God was a bad shot,
Or maybe a sadistic outlaw,
Making me dance with his pistol
Outside the cantina.
It wasn’t until much, much later
That I realized the thunderbolts
Were all for somebody
In the next block
And my guilt revealed itself
As innocence
Gone wrong.
Last Race at Churchill Downs
Apr 20 2011
Last Race at Churchill Downs
My cousin was dying
In a hospital room
Watching his last Kentucky Derby
On TV with a catheter
Hanging out of his dick.
We watched the race together
That April day, me and him.
It was over in a couple of minutes
After all that hype, just like that.
Like life itself. And we looked
At each other
With lame smiles
And parted without saying goodbye.
--
The fourth law of thermodynamics
Says empathy must always increase,
And that love will become disorderly,
Until hearts die everywhere
And the universe is still.
My cousin was dying
In a hospital room
Watching his last Kentucky Derby
On TV with a catheter
Hanging out of his dick.
We watched the race together
That April day, me and him.
It was over in a couple of minutes
After all that hype, just like that.
Like life itself. And we looked
At each other
With lame smiles
And parted without saying goodbye.
--
The fourth law of thermodynamics
Says empathy must always increase,
And that love will become disorderly,
Until hearts die everywhere
And the universe is still.
The S.S. Admiral
Apr 20 2011
The S.S. Admiral
The Admiral casino
Is a five dollar whore
Of a riverboat, no engine, roped
To the St. Louis levee
Where the unprivileged class
Shreds paychecks
Into hanging chads.
Numb and cheerless gamblers
Breathe stale smoke
And whisky by the slots,
Where they curse their luck
And stub out cigarettes
On their hearts.
I remember a different Admiral
From more innocent times,
Nighttime excursions
And the great piston arms
Of the steam engines,
Calling to the dark shores
Of the Mississippi
Calling for admiration
From jealous unseen eyes.
The Mississippi was our great sea,
The George Washington
Of American rivers,
Muddy like chocolate
And smelling of the lost dreams
From a thousand farms.
The river was alive with aroma,
A flowing, breathing plantation.
Yeasty smells from the great breweries,
Sweet poisons from
The chemical factories,
The odor of stockyard cattle
And barbecue smoking up
The black skies of darkening neighborhoods.
On the river we smugly escaped mosquitos,
And made a breeze to push away
The smothering humidity
Of our lives.
In those days the Admiral
Moved up and down the river
With its shiny, aerodynamic aluminum skin,
Like a monument from the naval battles
Of the Civil War.
People rhumbaed in the ballroom,
Shaking wax on the dance floor,
I was young then, and explored the ship
Imagining myself Huckleberry Finn,
On a raft drifting to a dreamland
Called New Orleans.
The wake of the riverboat
Swelled like the ocean
A brown maelstrom of churning water.
The waves sang to me of the river
And the city’s greatness.
They told me to stick with
White people.
They told me to watch my step getting off,
For the water was dirty and swift.
They told me not to break my ankles
On the levee stones.
Before my time the steamboats
Lined up like old Cadillacs
Along the banks of the river,
Bales of freight were scattered on these stones
Like carnage at Omaha Beach.
Once upon a time there was life here.
Now the dead Admiral
Is a floating tombstone,
A stuffed carcass
Denied the dignity
Of a proper burial.
Like my memories,
That remain
Like motionless zombies
At the slots.
The Admiral casino
Is a five dollar whore
Of a riverboat, no engine, roped
To the St. Louis levee
Where the unprivileged class
Shreds paychecks
Into hanging chads.
Numb and cheerless gamblers
Breathe stale smoke
And whisky by the slots,
Where they curse their luck
And stub out cigarettes
On their hearts.
I remember a different Admiral
From more innocent times,
Nighttime excursions
And the great piston arms
Of the steam engines,
Calling to the dark shores
Of the Mississippi
Calling for admiration
From jealous unseen eyes.
The Mississippi was our great sea,
The George Washington
Of American rivers,
Muddy like chocolate
And smelling of the lost dreams
From a thousand farms.
The river was alive with aroma,
A flowing, breathing plantation.
Yeasty smells from the great breweries,
Sweet poisons from
The chemical factories,
The odor of stockyard cattle
And barbecue smoking up
The black skies of darkening neighborhoods.
On the river we smugly escaped mosquitos,
And made a breeze to push away
The smothering humidity
Of our lives.
In those days the Admiral
Moved up and down the river
With its shiny, aerodynamic aluminum skin,
Like a monument from the naval battles
Of the Civil War.
People rhumbaed in the ballroom,
Shaking wax on the dance floor,
I was young then, and explored the ship
Imagining myself Huckleberry Finn,
On a raft drifting to a dreamland
Called New Orleans.
The wake of the riverboat
Swelled like the ocean
A brown maelstrom of churning water.
The waves sang to me of the river
And the city’s greatness.
They told me to stick with
White people.
They told me to watch my step getting off,
For the water was dirty and swift.
They told me not to break my ankles
On the levee stones.
Before my time the steamboats
Lined up like old Cadillacs
Along the banks of the river,
Bales of freight were scattered on these stones
Like carnage at Omaha Beach.
Once upon a time there was life here.
Now the dead Admiral
Is a floating tombstone,
A stuffed carcass
Denied the dignity
Of a proper burial.
Like my memories,
That remain
Like motionless zombies
At the slots.
Yurt
Apr 20 2011
Yurt
A loose pile of men
Raked themselves
Into the temple of a yurt
One night. The moon was
New and the woods were black
With shadows.
So what if they weren’t
In Mongolia.
They could still smell the
Sweetness of grass
And the breath of horses
Almost in farm country.
Prayer flags lined the walls.
As thoughts burned like cold wind
On every face. Blessings circled
Like witches around a fire.
While old men contained
What was in their hearts
Even as they tried
To figure out
What it was.
A loose pile of men
Raked themselves
Into the temple of a yurt
One night. The moon was
New and the woods were black
With shadows.
So what if they weren’t
In Mongolia.
They could still smell the
Sweetness of grass
And the breath of horses
Almost in farm country.
Prayer flags lined the walls.
As thoughts burned like cold wind
On every face. Blessings circled
Like witches around a fire.
While old men contained
What was in their hearts
Even as they tried
To figure out
What it was.
News Release
Apr 20 2011
News Release
The war will be over in days
The President said
As he straightened his face.
And thought to himself
I’m late for the fundraiser.
The war will be over in days
The President said
As he straightened his face.
And thought to himself
I’m late for the fundraiser.
Invisible Man
Apr 20 2011
Invisible Man
Invisible men are popping up everywhere
Waiting to greet you
At the tops of stairs
And ramps and escalators.
Outside banks
And high end grocery stores.
Invisible men
Are stalking and waiting
And watching.
Staring at you
When elevator doors open.
They stand at the gas station
While you fill up your shiny car.
Outside restaurants,
Rattling cups
And saying “God bless”
After you’ve had a good meal with wine
And Armagnac.
They stand in lines
On invisible streets
Waiting for warm soup
And cold pity
From passers by.
But perhaps all the invisibility
Is an illusion.
Perhaps it is you who are invisible
And unreal.
Perhaps the other invisible men
See right through you.
Perhaps it is the real you, voiceless
And terrified, who is waiting
At the top of the stairs,
To materialize.
Invisible men are popping up everywhere
Waiting to greet you
At the tops of stairs
And ramps and escalators.
Outside banks
And high end grocery stores.
Invisible men
Are stalking and waiting
And watching.
Staring at you
When elevator doors open.
They stand at the gas station
While you fill up your shiny car.
Outside restaurants,
Rattling cups
And saying “God bless”
After you’ve had a good meal with wine
And Armagnac.
They stand in lines
On invisible streets
Waiting for warm soup
And cold pity
From passers by.
But perhaps all the invisibility
Is an illusion.
Perhaps it is you who are invisible
And unreal.
Perhaps the other invisible men
See right through you.
Perhaps it is the real you, voiceless
And terrified, who is waiting
At the top of the stairs,
To materialize.
Man UP!
Apr 20 2011
When she told me to man up,
I bought a Stetson hat
And a catcher’s cup.
I bought a gun and a dagger, too.
Surely I thought, that should do.
But no. She said “man up” again
So I joined a gym, and then the marines.
I joined a strip club, behind the scenes.
I bought a Hummer, a box of cigars,
And a season’s ticket
To African wars.
“Not man enough,” my woman sniffed.
So I bought a horse
And a trip to Mars,
I spent lots of time
In grim Irish bars.
I studied Jujitsu and strange martial arts,
And even considered
Enlarging my parts.
“No, no!” she lamented,
“You simply don’t get it.
You need a recliner
And E-S-P-N,
A full plate of nachos
To eat now and then.
You need to get fat
And ignore me completely.
Wear hats to the restaurant,
And don’t eat discretely.”
And so I reformed,
Drank beer from an unwashed cup.
As soon as I knew what it meant
To man up.
Duet
Mar 21 2011
Duet
If I were a rock and you were the sea
Would your sea bosom swell
If I fell into thee?
Would I drown in your arms,
As your love swallowed me,
If I were a rock who fell into the sea?
If I were a bird and you were a tree,
Would you spread
Your leaf covered arms for me?
Could I nest in your treetop for others to see,
If I were a bird, and you were a tree?
If I were you, and you were me,
Would we still want each other’s company?
What is that other thing we would see,,
If I were you, and you were me?
If we love with a love that is all it can be,
Will love be a cage, or will love set us free
To fly like two birds to the top of a tree,
And sing with a love that is all it can be
As we laugh and watch rocks splashing into the sea.
If I were a rock and you were the sea
Would your sea bosom swell
If I fell into thee?
Would I drown in your arms,
As your love swallowed me,
If I were a rock who fell into the sea?
If I were a bird and you were a tree,
Would you spread
Your leaf covered arms for me?
Could I nest in your treetop for others to see,
If I were a bird, and you were a tree?
If I were you, and you were me,
Would we still want each other’s company?
What is that other thing we would see,,
If I were you, and you were me?
If we love with a love that is all it can be,
Will love be a cage, or will love set us free
To fly like two birds to the top of a tree,
And sing with a love that is all it can be
As we laugh and watch rocks splashing into the sea.
Suppose I Told You
Mar 21 2011
Suppose I Told You
Suppose I told you
You would die today,
And that I
Would also die today?
Would you read anything sinister
Into my comment,
Or assume my dying
Had anything to do
With your dying?
Would you even believe me?
And would death mean to you
What it means to me,
And dying mean to you
What it means to me,
For death and dying
Are not the same.
And I’m not sure which
I fear more.
Suppose I told you
You would die today,
And I would not?
Would you stop
To ask for details,
Or would you run from me,
Quickly,
As if panicked by a dog?
But have no fear.
I don’t know
If you will die today,
And if I did,
I would lie about it.
Suppose I told you
You would die today,
And that I
Would also die today?
Would you read anything sinister
Into my comment,
Or assume my dying
Had anything to do
With your dying?
Would you even believe me?
And would death mean to you
What it means to me,
And dying mean to you
What it means to me,
For death and dying
Are not the same.
And I’m not sure which
I fear more.
Suppose I told you
You would die today,
And I would not?
Would you stop
To ask for details,
Or would you run from me,
Quickly,
As if panicked by a dog?
But have no fear.
I don’t know
If you will die today,
And if I did,
I would lie about it.
Ce Plus Ne Change Pas
Mar 21 2011
Ce Plus Ne Change Pas
The more things stay the same
The more they change.
Like the stubborn cliff
That will not
Get out of the way
Of the ocean.
Or the long, gray
Changeless winter,
Disguising the hypothermia
Of slumbering spring.
Winter is the heart
That cannot love,
The unspent sperm,
The cold testicle
Lying low.
The dead who lie still
As they gaily putrefy,
The infinite within the infinitesimal,
The seemingly quiet egg,
The still life on the gallery wall,
The glacier roaring down the hill--
Know what I mean.
They stay the same
To disguise change
Until they can spring it on you.
So did that still life on the wall
Move just now? Did that
Dead pheasant or the fruit
So carefully arranged
Move just a bit?
Is not the frame askew?
Can you be sure of it?
The more things stay the same
The more they change.
Like the stubborn cliff
That will not
Get out of the way
Of the ocean.
Or the long, gray
Changeless winter,
Disguising the hypothermia
Of slumbering spring.
Winter is the heart
That cannot love,
The unspent sperm,
The cold testicle
Lying low.
The dead who lie still
As they gaily putrefy,
The infinite within the infinitesimal,
The seemingly quiet egg,
The still life on the gallery wall,
The glacier roaring down the hill--
Know what I mean.
They stay the same
To disguise change
Until they can spring it on you.
So did that still life on the wall
Move just now? Did that
Dead pheasant or the fruit
So carefully arranged
Move just a bit?
Is not the frame askew?
Can you be sure of it?
Tubercular John
Mar 21 2011
Tubercular John
Tubercular John
Lives in an alley
Just off Mean Street,
Where he smokes and coughs.
And spits all day long.
His lungs are full
Of bad blood
And bad air.
His spit lands everywhere,
And when his stare
Lands on you,
All he sees is his own anger,
Bouncing off the mirror
Of your eyes.
Tubercular John
Lives in an alley
Just off Mean Street,
Where he smokes and coughs.
And spits all day long.
His lungs are full
Of bad blood
And bad air.
His spit lands everywhere,
And when his stare
Lands on you,
All he sees is his own anger,
Bouncing off the mirror
Of your eyes.
The Secret Life of Jesus #972
Mar 21 2011
The Secret Life of Jesus #972
Jesus had a friend
Who loved to be the first
Kid on the block
To have everything.
So when he waved Jesus over
To see his new iPhone,
Jesus just smiled
And listened to his friend
Explain his latest toy.
But he winced as his friend
Showed him the new app
That was a teleprompter.
For going to confession.
Jesus could not believe
That anyone would spend
Good money to be reminded
Of their sins.
Jesus had a friend
Who loved to be the first
Kid on the block
To have everything.
So when he waved Jesus over
To see his new iPhone,
Jesus just smiled
And listened to his friend
Explain his latest toy.
But he winced as his friend
Showed him the new app
That was a teleprompter.
For going to confession.
Jesus could not believe
That anyone would spend
Good money to be reminded
Of their sins.
The Secret Life of Jesus #635
Mar 21 2011
The Secret Life of Jesus #635
Jesus decided to give up drinking,
But he was having a hard time.
Mary was no help,
Dragging him off to weddings,
Asking him to make wine
All the time, hoping
He would meet a nice girl.
Saying no to your mother
Would take a miracle,
Jesus said to himself.
It was easier
To keep drinking.
Jesus decided to give up drinking,
But he was having a hard time.
Mary was no help,
Dragging him off to weddings,
Asking him to make wine
All the time, hoping
He would meet a nice girl.
Saying no to your mother
Would take a miracle,
Jesus said to himself.
It was easier
To keep drinking.
Fortune Cookie
Mar 21 2011
Fortune Cookie
If I were a fortune cookie,
I would watch you
Eating your fried rice,
Biding my time,
Deciding while you ate
What your fortune would be.
Then, your future
Would break open
Like the slightest of desserts,
And you would puzzle
Over fortune,
As we all do.
If I were a fortune cookie,
I would watch you
Eating your fried rice,
Biding my time,
Deciding while you ate
What your fortune would be.
Then, your future
Would break open
Like the slightest of desserts,
And you would puzzle
Over fortune,
As we all do.
Drop By Drop
Mar 21 2011
Drop By Drop
I came to life
Like a rainstorm,
Drop by drop.
Imperceptible.
Until one day,
Like a burst cloud,
I rained down
In all my fullness,
Watering everything,
Demanding
Reluctant flowers,
Demanding
To be gathered up.
I rained down
Like clear water,
Washing the world,
Exacting a little fear.
But the end of the storm
Grows near.
Soon the rain will pass away,
Hopefully leaving rainbows,
And a little clarity,
Drop by drop.
I came to life
Like a rainstorm,
Drop by drop.
Imperceptible.
Until one day,
Like a burst cloud,
I rained down
In all my fullness,
Watering everything,
Demanding
Reluctant flowers,
Demanding
To be gathered up.
I rained down
Like clear water,
Washing the world,
Exacting a little fear.
But the end of the storm
Grows near.
Soon the rain will pass away,
Hopefully leaving rainbows,
And a little clarity,
Drop by drop.
Chasing Time
Feb 09 2011
Chasing Time
It was a dark
And moonless night
I was chasing time
Through the forest
And he was very fast,
But even time
Must catch its breath.
So at last
I caught up to him.
“What’s the hurry?” I said,
“And how come you only
Run in one direction?”
Then time
Stood very still,
And I thought I glimpsed
Parallel times
Racing against
The time before my eyes,
And I knew that either fast or slow
There was another time
That I would never
See or know.
It was a dark
And moonless night
I was chasing time
Through the forest
And he was very fast,
But even time
Must catch its breath.
So at last
I caught up to him.
“What’s the hurry?” I said,
“And how come you only
Run in one direction?”
Then time
Stood very still,
And I thought I glimpsed
Parallel times
Racing against
The time before my eyes,
And I knew that either fast or slow
There was another time
That I would never
See or know.
Mt. Vesuvius
Feb 09 2011
Mt. Vesuvius
That whore I met in Naples
Gave me a gift
That would stay with me forever,
A gift that goes on giving,.
She seemed eager,
In the rented room
With her faint moustache,
Her skin the flavor
Of garlic and perfume.
But that was long ago.
I wonder what became of her,
She promised me experiences
I would not forget.
But my memories of her are vague.
Her face is lost amid a thousand faces,
And so I scratch my head in vain,
And other places.
That whore I met in Naples
Gave me a gift
That would stay with me forever,
A gift that goes on giving,.
She seemed eager,
In the rented room
With her faint moustache,
Her skin the flavor
Of garlic and perfume.
But that was long ago.
I wonder what became of her,
She promised me experiences
I would not forget.
But my memories of her are vague.
Her face is lost amid a thousand faces,
And so I scratch my head in vain,
And other places.
Window Glass at Macy’s
Feb 09 2011
Window Glass at Macy’s
Someone smashed in
A plate glass window at Macy’s.
The manikins are speechless
And can not move,
Like birds in love,
Unaware of an open door,
Freedom beckons,
Yet its whispers are ignored.
Men remove the shards,
The way lies open,
But the manikins are frozen,
Too wrapped up
In clothes and shoes
To notice freedom calling.
It’s cold without windows.
The manikins pull borrowed clothes
Tight around their thin, indifferent frames.
The wind might blow them over.
Better to ignore the glass,
Better to stay warm forever,
Watch a parade,
Let freedom pass.
Someone smashed in
A plate glass window at Macy’s.
The manikins are speechless
And can not move,
Like birds in love,
Unaware of an open door,
Freedom beckons,
Yet its whispers are ignored.
Men remove the shards,
The way lies open,
But the manikins are frozen,
Too wrapped up
In clothes and shoes
To notice freedom calling.
It’s cold without windows.
The manikins pull borrowed clothes
Tight around their thin, indifferent frames.
The wind might blow them over.
Better to ignore the glass,
Better to stay warm forever,
Watch a parade,
Let freedom pass.
Changing Room
Feb 09 2011
Changing Room
In the changing room
Men strip down to their skins
Or so they think
For they have stripped down
To their very souls,
To a nakedness
Of uncommon visibility.
In the changing room
The Emperors try to act
As if their clothes
Were still on display,
And all their flab
And the white hair combed
Over their cocks
Are those of a younger man.
But on all fours,
No one is much impressed
With appearances,
Where assholes cannot pretend
They are not.
In the changing room
We see things as they are
And will not be persuaded otherwise.
For wisdom is seldom found
In the crotch of an argument
In the changing room
Men strip down to their skins
Or so they think
For they have stripped down
To their very souls,
To a nakedness
Of uncommon visibility.
In the changing room
The Emperors try to act
As if their clothes
Were still on display,
And all their flab
And the white hair combed
Over their cocks
Are those of a younger man.
But on all fours,
No one is much impressed
With appearances,
Where assholes cannot pretend
They are not.
In the changing room
We see things as they are
And will not be persuaded otherwise.
For wisdom is seldom found
In the crotch of an argument
Surviving
Feb 09 2011
Surviving
I think that I would like to be
The very last Christmas tree of all,
To have my lights turned off
And packed away.
Or maybe the tall fir in a clearcut
That remains,
To spread hopeful seeds on barren slopes.
Or maybe the final stone
Swept off an ocean haystack
By the storm seized wave,
When all the rest
Have been washed away,
When other things
Are gone, and all that survives
Is terrifying clarity,
You can see a long, lonely way,
If that still means anything to you.
I think that I would like to be
The very last Christmas tree of all,
To have my lights turned off
And packed away.
Or maybe the tall fir in a clearcut
That remains,
To spread hopeful seeds on barren slopes.
Or maybe the final stone
Swept off an ocean haystack
By the storm seized wave,
When all the rest
Have been washed away,
When other things
Are gone, and all that survives
Is terrifying clarity,
You can see a long, lonely way,
If that still means anything to you.
Do you need what you want?
Jan 30 2011
Do you need what you want?
Do you want what you need?
If you need something,
Must you necessarily want it?
If you want something,
Must you necessarily need it?
I don’t need to know,
But I want to.
Do you want what you need?
If you need something,
Must you necessarily want it?
If you want something,
Must you necessarily need it?
I don’t need to know,
But I want to.
The Secret Life of Jesus #375
Jan 30 2011
The Secret Life of Jesus #375
The prom was coming up,
And Jesus didn’t have date.
What he did have
Was acne.
He could have
Done something about it,
But he wanted to fit in.
His sister offered to go
To the prom with him,
But he declined.
He went to the prom alone,
And all the girls danced with him,
As if by some miracle,
Like bees
Around a honey jar.
The prom was coming up,
And Jesus didn’t have date.
What he did have
Was acne.
He could have
Done something about it,
But he wanted to fit in.
His sister offered to go
To the prom with him,
But he declined.
He went to the prom alone,
And all the girls danced with him,
As if by some miracle,
Like bees
Around a honey jar.
The Secret Life of Jesus #564
Jan 30 2011
The Secret Life of Jesus #564
Jesus had a terrible headache,
It felt like somebody
Was pounding nails into him.
He tried to smile
As people reached out
To touch his robe.
They had come a long way
To see him.
But the nails kept pounding,
And the people kept coming,
And he knew his headaches
Were just beginning.
Jesus had a terrible headache,
It felt like somebody
Was pounding nails into him.
He tried to smile
As people reached out
To touch his robe.
They had come a long way
To see him.
But the nails kept pounding,
And the people kept coming,
And he knew his headaches
Were just beginning.
To America with AK47 Love
Jan 26 2011
seemed appropriate on State of the Union night. Jim
To America with AK47 Love
To America with AK47 Love
I brought you this poem from an angry lover,
Because you were ready for it,
Because you needed your ass slapped,
Because I should have left you a long time ago,
But I could not surrender your sweet parts,
Just as I could not make you understand yourself.
Oh America, why have you been so wild, so stupid?
So knocked up on sex with bad ideas?
America, you have become a slut
Walking down after hour alleys
With dubious parsons of the night.
America, you need a good bath.
We were happy once, Oh America.
I drove your curves beneath the good sun.
I studied the bosom of your mountains,
Your orgasmic rivers and the steam rising
From your everlasting hot springs at Yellowstone.
I tasted the hot juice of your prodigal lips,
Reflected in the windows of Manhattan.
But you’ve gone fucking around again,
Shooting up with bad company.
It’s time for an intervention.
I am going to steal your clothes, Oh America.
And strap you to a cactus, and feed you
Good medicine to make you well.
See the strong men in the doorway?
See my strong hands, waiting to shake you
From the opium haze of false dreams?
Come now America my love.
It is time to pay Jesus
For your sins.
Watching the Night Sky
Dec 13 2010
Watching the Night Sky
Take time to lie down on the earth,
Beneath the darkening sky,
And watch as brightening stars appear
Or if the sky be clouds,
Await the raindrop’s kiss.
Cloudless skies are best, I think,
When stars like frozen fireflies
Stay their wings
And sparkle in the night.
Or are they distant winking eyes?
My own eyes, winking back,
Pretend that other faces watch
From other planet lawns,
Our gazes passing in their quiet searches.
What strangers lie ‘neath other skies,
What ponderers are contemplating
Wonders far away? I cannot say.
Their eyes are closing as the dawn
Suggests another day.
But night will come again with all its eyes.
I’ll rest once more upon the earth beneath
Infinities of skies. I’ll watch
A comet aim for earth and miss.
As someone watching worlds away
Blows me a kiss.
Take time to lie down on the earth,
Beneath the darkening sky,
And watch as brightening stars appear
Or if the sky be clouds,
Await the raindrop’s kiss.
Cloudless skies are best, I think,
When stars like frozen fireflies
Stay their wings
And sparkle in the night.
Or are they distant winking eyes?
My own eyes, winking back,
Pretend that other faces watch
From other planet lawns,
Our gazes passing in their quiet searches.
What strangers lie ‘neath other skies,
What ponderers are contemplating
Wonders far away? I cannot say.
Their eyes are closing as the dawn
Suggests another day.
But night will come again with all its eyes.
I’ll rest once more upon the earth beneath
Infinities of skies. I’ll watch
A comet aim for earth and miss.
As someone watching worlds away
Blows me a kiss.
The Secret Life of Jesus #257
Oct 28 2010
The Secret Life of Jesus #257
When Jesus was a boy
He liked to play hide and seek.
“Have you found Jesus?”
His playmates would shout out
To one another
While Jesus floated on a cloud
Staring down at them.
Just when the kids
Were getting tired of the game
Jesus would reappear
From out of nowhere.
“I found Jesus, I found Jesus,”
The children would cry.
As Jesus smiled
And said to them,
“Let’s play again.”
When Jesus was a boy
He liked to play hide and seek.
“Have you found Jesus?”
His playmates would shout out
To one another
While Jesus floated on a cloud
Staring down at them.
Just when the kids
Were getting tired of the game
Jesus would reappear
From out of nowhere.
“I found Jesus, I found Jesus,”
The children would cry.
As Jesus smiled
And said to them,
“Let’s play again.”
Lake Washington
Oct 06 2010
Lake Washington
I have a friend
Who bathes in Lake Washington.
He thinks it’s the Ganges,
And who am I to argue with him.
Every morning he stands in the sacred waters,
Singing and rejoicing.
In his daily baptism.
He hums mantras to the morning sun.
Peeking over the Cascades,
And hoists his load of suffering
On clean shoulders.
Woman do not do their wash here.
Men do not brush their teeth here.
The mournful do not burn their dead.\
On the ghats of Lake Washington.
I wonder what makes any water sacred,
I should ask my friend.
Perhaps he will know.
Perhaps it is him.
I have a friend
Who bathes in Lake Washington.
He thinks it’s the Ganges,
And who am I to argue with him.
Every morning he stands in the sacred waters,
Singing and rejoicing.
In his daily baptism.
He hums mantras to the morning sun.
Peeking over the Cascades,
And hoists his load of suffering
On clean shoulders.
Woman do not do their wash here.
Men do not brush their teeth here.
The mournful do not burn their dead.\
On the ghats of Lake Washington.
I wonder what makes any water sacred,
I should ask my friend.
Perhaps he will know.
Perhaps it is him.
How to See Things Differently
Sep 23 2010
How to See Things Differently
An artist told me once
To paint a tree you must
Paint the sky around the tree,
And the tree will become visible.
And so I wondered if I am just
Whatever I am not,
And if I am not nothing,
Perhaps that makes me everything
Which was the answer
I was looking for.
An artist told me once
To paint a tree you must
Paint the sky around the tree,
And the tree will become visible.
And so I wondered if I am just
Whatever I am not,
And if I am not nothing,
Perhaps that makes me everything
Which was the answer
I was looking for.
Cruise Announcement
Sep 23 2010
Cruise Announcement
Good morning everyone.
This is Captain Charon.
We’re expecting fine weather
As we cross the Styx today
On our short cruise to Hades.
You will not need your passports
When you disembark.
Weather is expected to be warm.
Please remember to take
Plenty of bottled water with you.
Good morning everyone.
This is Captain Charon.
We’re expecting fine weather
As we cross the Styx today
On our short cruise to Hades.
You will not need your passports
When you disembark.
Weather is expected to be warm.
Please remember to take
Plenty of bottled water with you.
The Secret Life of Jesus #383
Aug 29 2010
The Secret Life of Jesus #383
When Jesus turned 28
(In the year 29)
He went to his 10th
High School reunion.
It felt really weird.
He had a beard by then,
And suffered through tales
Of romance and success.
Magdelene still
Had the hots for him,
And Judas seemed to have lost
A lot of money at cards.
Somebody dragged out
A yearbook, And there he was
In the class photo,
The tall one near the end
In the back row
Desperate to get out
Of Nazareth.
He was still
Living at home,
And when they asked
If they’d see him in ten years
At the next reunion,
He said “probably not.”
When Jesus turned 28
(In the year 29)
He went to his 10th
High School reunion.
It felt really weird.
He had a beard by then,
And suffered through tales
Of romance and success.
Magdelene still
Had the hots for him,
And Judas seemed to have lost
A lot of money at cards.
Somebody dragged out
A yearbook, And there he was
In the class photo,
The tall one near the end
In the back row
Desperate to get out
Of Nazareth.
He was still
Living at home,
And when they asked
If they’d see him in ten years
At the next reunion,
He said “probably not.”
The Secret Life of Jesus #688
Aug 29 2010
The Secret Life of Jesus #688
Jesus was ready
For a vacation,
So he walked across the lake,
To check out the other side.
The beach was filled
With American tourists,
Lush women with hard faces,
And men with great tans
And silver sunglasses.
They didn’t pay
A bit of attention
When He came ashore,
Which was fine with Him.
He knew he would meet them later
When the sun went down.
Jesus was ready
For a vacation,
So he walked across the lake,
To check out the other side.
The beach was filled
With American tourists,
Lush women with hard faces,
And men with great tans
And silver sunglasses.
They didn’t pay
A bit of attention
When He came ashore,
Which was fine with Him.
He knew he would meet them later
When the sun went down.
Quandary
Aug 29 2010
Quandary
What should the strong
Do with the weak?
Should they devour them?
Should they protect them?
Should they own them and use them?
And what should the weak
Do about the strong?
Should they avoid them?
Should they challenge them?
Should they conspire against them
Like the legions of Lilliput?
And what should the soul
Do for the body
And the body for the soul?
Should the body make gods
In its own image,
And should the soul
Deceive the body?
Perhaps Nietzsche was right
And all life is the will to power,
For the powerless thing
Is lifeless after all,
And a man spends his life
Scratching at doors
That promise more life
Behind them.
What should the strong
Do with the weak?
Should they devour them?
Should they protect them?
Should they own them and use them?
And what should the weak
Do about the strong?
Should they avoid them?
Should they challenge them?
Should they conspire against them
Like the legions of Lilliput?
And what should the soul
Do for the body
And the body for the soul?
Should the body make gods
In its own image,
And should the soul
Deceive the body?
Perhaps Nietzsche was right
And all life is the will to power,
For the powerless thing
Is lifeless after all,
And a man spends his life
Scratching at doors
That promise more life
Behind them.