Category: Book o’ Verse

  • Everyday chug

    Everybody’s tired of it today.
    Tired of the same old everyday vibrations
    chugging through their bodies
    down from their throats to
    their hands
    to the ground.
    The lechers are too tired to lech today.
    You see?
    Dogs don’t even try to lick their buddies.
    And now the sidewalk prophets are even putting down their
    street signs, even walking off their jobs
    saying: “Doom.
    Whatever.
    Doom.”

  • Cold

    put on a fat coat
    bagel coat
    butter coat
    wind too sharp
    biscuit coat
    bones

  • Let’s talk about (Tuttle’s line)

    Taking us from a to b.
    Varying in heft.
    Guileless.
    Craftless.
    Curving shiny sometimes
    but still always essentially
    linear.
    Scribbly.
    Stand in front of thirty.
    “Which one is my favorite?”
    But how could he
    possibly
    know?

  • Ferry ride

    This brain don’t tire
    of shore
    shrinking to speck
    as boat pulls away
    as every day
    I immigrate.

  • Monkey Friend

    And the monkey breath!
    You gotta pack that up, my friend
    all smelling of termites and sticks
    and other monkeys.
    No one asked you to smell that way.
    In fact, the assignation specifically connoted
    replicating a contrary stench, to whit:
    the non-monkey stench.
    So why carmelize your ack ack ack ack ack, my friend, my friend?
    Instead, hey —
    flatten out your wallet.
    Hey narrow your eye-wear.
    Hey surge-protect
    your estuary
    knowledge core.

  • Graffiti Glass Breath

    Gathering glass breath
    into slushed dixie cups
    chimney’d through milk wood
    through worm weed
    in whispers.
    Marked pies with iron-crossed crust.
    Heartfelt. Growing.
    Red whispers.
    Sliding up against
    red-veined wood fences.
    Slipping into character such that
    white curves
    twist toward
    fading blue words.
    Graffiti glass breath, my sweetie.
    Popular chain-gang motif.

  • My unkind moment

    He looked like he was drawn
    not with a pen or a paintbrush
    but with the dull wet end of a used toothpick.
    A dent. An imprint.
    A soft image.
    Leaving behind
    a flaw designed primarily
    to gather dust.
  • Poem

    Soon will come a time
    when we’ll move out to that house
    by the brook.
    And the weather will be fine.
    And the broadband.

  • Two hours

    Pouring all these
    good things inside me.
    Tea. Poetry. Pear tart. Lemonade.
    Tea. Poetry. Lemonade. Lemonade.
    Pear tart.
    Lemonade.
    Tea.
    Pale Fire.
    Pear tart.
    Lemonade.
    Hoping some of it sticks.

  • Perhaps

    Perhaps it’s just a dream
    but I do like the idea
    of some days having
    that boot on my desk.
    Some days not.