some frogs
toyed
with the human
by croaking
once, twice.
then being quiet
as he looked
around.
Archive for December, 1991
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I shot my poem
with a bow I strung
high away in the air
up over the sun.
I fly when I’m lonely
with no one around.
wild spinning up softly,
ending up on the ground.
Untitled poem #-11
Posted: December 26, 1991 in PoetryTags: Dream, Mirror, Ocean, Sand, Stars, Window
tonight
as a dream
of ocean,
there is seaweed,
a corsage
on my wrist,
sand in my nails;
my window was open
to the stars,
mirrors to
mad poetry.
Ghoul Flesh or Mr. Gnarly Rides Again
Posted: December 26, 1991 in PoetryTags: Bones, Mister Gnarly, Skull, Stone, Wood
I count the bones
rained from above
which sound like wood
dropped on stone
when they fall.
–
If I could,
I think I’d love
the long bones
most of all,
and the skulls.
thee King in Yellow
lies still,
his face shrouded
by thee breath
of a thousand monkeys.
I think of my chaos of dogs in the dark:
down fall the trash cans; they saunter and sally
as we race away quick down the waterstained alley.
chiming in with great howls and loud barks.
four-legged and shining, we piss on all cars
snickering about owners asleep in their sheets
their dogs running loose all around in their streets
following the directions of the faraway stars.
the squiggles of the moon
in the water ‘round your feet
is how powerful you are.
when I close my eyes,
I can see Alex flying.
