cankersores suck gigantic dick
little rock pain gouge
easily jarred into angry gnawing
tongue testing irritability limits
grumble grumble bitch
more Certs™, minty bombs
make the bacteria go away
sore grubby hotspots rotting
food parcel particles old
festering mouth wounds
no bandaid relief
oral land mine punjii sticks
under-the-tongue blister
jiggling pus sacs
brush your teeth with a razor blade
kind of pain.
0
Michael is stuck in his own little world
others can only look in through the bars
like a curious ape that scientists can’t explain.
I throw gorilla chips at you.
– – –
if I don’t have it in my own little world,
I will make it or dream it up somehow.
incomprehensible, yes; to me this is magical.
you ask me what I do and I will reply
that Michael is diligently learning to fly.
– – –
my place is where I sing;
I can make noise and it is beautiful music.
I can howl at the moon and the beasties will answer.
art makes no sense and that is its perfection;
can you do this? this is being stuck in my own little world,
so who are you to look through the bars?
– – –
sometimes lonely mike, sometimes tragic Michael.
nobody here to impress but myself, and to be bored with oneself
is to give up and die.
many other things I sing of…
lovely and cool, pink and minty stuff,
quell my queasing stomach rough.
calm the bilish oceanic waves
which slosh within gastronomic caves.
unleash thy pow’rful soothing mood
upon my restless and acerbic food;
bestill the tides which yaw and heave
it is in you that I trust and believe.
10/1/90
the quiet sound
of the rain dancing
tiny pirouettes
out on the sidewalk
is the only noise
which filters through
into my room
tonight;
no rumbling thunder
no bright lightning,
just the not unpleasant sound
of the rain falling,
crystalline clean
precipitation;
the rain comes and goes
tonight, but
in the morning I might find
a few puddles here and there.
books, covers grinning with coveted secrets,
stacks upon stacks, grey bricks of a castle,
dusty pages of knowledge untold and ancient,
stories of old; phantoms, dragons, angels, devils,
crumbling parchment, yellowed edges
on bookshelves in unused closets,
writing themselves in the dark basement of the library.
God’s Electronic Floor Tom Sample
Posted: September 26, 1990 in PoetryTags: God, Sample, Sound, Thunder
Oh. Thunder,
How I love your sound,
The resounding slap
Of a Thunderclap
Even shakes the ground.
I always fright:
where does the bolt strike?
Even if out of town,
I wonder.
bicycling over the heath
Hardy in the veins,
poetry running throughout my brain
and dirt beneath
me and my green bicycle
touring the countryside
admiring the steely sky
losing the Me in Michael.
alone in a big room (echoes and ghosts)
Posted: September 25, 1990 in PoetryTags: Alone, Bear, Echo, Flowers, Ghost
9/25/90
small. lonely.
alone in a big room.
echoes and ghosts,
stairs and flowers,
the noise of old laughter
is caught wistfully in some corners
where the experienced ear
can still hear it whisper.
bedrooms and bears,
visions and dreams.
alone in a big room.
small. lonely.
Rain Starry Forest
Posted: September 24, 1990 in PoetryTags: Ezra Pound, Forest, Road, Robert Frost
I stood like Ezra Pound
in a wood like a tree and I listened
to things one normally does not see
when running pell-mell to get by
the forest true.
I was like Robert Frost
all because I reveled in the leaves
laid before me: deep, coarse, unleveled;
a road barely traveled by I
and a few.
what shall I say to thee
infinite reaches of space,
unfolding as a game board of unlimited leaves
surveying the rules of elder gods
as drops fall silently strained through the fabric of my robes.
clear eyes can distill liquor from the pungent fern
as brave minstrels sing under reddening skies of smoke.
as beautiful as the apocalypse is,
foundations quake with a hummingbird’s nerves;
the hum of snapped electrical cables
the glazing of the glorious mirror-windows
wind rustles gently through
an anticipating forest
and the animals wish we leave now.
9/23/90
the stems of adolescent flowers
are trimmed with careful hand.
careful pruning and weed killer
teaches them how to stand.
no thought is needed on their part
to think until they’re grown,
when they find they each can go
and wilt all on their own.
9/18/90
spiders are everywhere
no matter where you look
a spider could be there
nothing is spider-free
spiders come from everything
people make more spiders
it makes my skin crawl
like dozens of little spiders.
Who is that masked man
Who leaves those secret notes?
An enigma; who can say
For sure it is him or him
Or her.
No one really knows why
Or who or how or where it is
Unpredictable – you might say
Like the power of a phantom,
Or a flower.
[for Jamie and Nini]
Cheeze Whiz
Posted: June 28, 1990 in PoetryTags: Alex Kohrt, Blues Brothers, Cheeze Whiz, Doom, Monster Zero, Rhyme
I said Cheeze Whiz! I said Cheeze Whiz!
ta gitchya bang in yo booty’s my bizness.
Chris catchaya lyrics, cold funk mah rhyme
‘cause all we here to do is just boogie yo behind.
get down…so whatcha gonna do
when the funkee fresh hottie’s cold clockin’ you
she’s fly, treat her right to tha wine and cheese
but lookin’ inna fridge just makes ya freeze:
no cheddar no gouda no Kraft no jack,
no swiss no sharp no time ta head out back
to tha store…ya know what time it is!
what time is it, baby? Bust tha Cheeze Whiz!
got tha can in my hand from the edge of doom,
now you’re back in tha bedroom cold bustin’ tha boom,
the door flies open, who could it be?
it’s my dad and he’s gonna ask me:
“You gots mah Cheeze Whiz, boy?”
-sample courtesy of the Blues Brothers.
[written for Monster Zero]
Hunters in the Snow
Posted: October 15, 1987 in PoetryTags: Circle, Dog, Happy, Hunter, Memories, Mountains, Naked, Raven, Road, Sky, Snow, Stone, Trees, Wind, Window
The ice skaters turn and glide slowly
On the frozen ice
Oblivious
To the hunters, returning along the wintery road
Dejected and downcast
but the skaters go on skating
In their own little circles
In their own little figures
Some following and some leading
Under the grey, expecting sky.
Pausing at the outskirts of town
And looking at the scores of windswept roofs,
The lines of the gables braced against their burden
Of snow, falling sporadically,
Covering and blanketing.
Looking to the deceptively happy skaters
And those in the carriage or out on a walk
The happy cries of young playing tag on the ice
The hunter only notices; he can see the town differently, too
Huddled at the base of the hoary mountains
Rearing their stony snow-covered peaks skyward
Looming grimly, as the merciless wind blows about their feet.
Ravens sit mockingly in naked black trees
Rent of their covering leaves and stark against the snow
Or they wheel overhead, crying out harsh notes to the bleak crags.
Windows shut tight against the frost which daintily graces them.
The dirty, downtrod snow by the side of the road
Chilly air, in which his breath shows so well
And he scrunches a little deeper into his threadbare coat
And trudges after his miserably gaunt dogs
After his tired companions
Returning to a worn town
Bringing back only fruitless memories
Leaving behind only hopeless footprints.
Hello there
I’m back again
What’s going on
Inside my brain
There’s a pink bunny
Running in the snow
Dismantle! Transform!
Wheeze gasp blow
Millions of ants
Spiders, too
And of hippopotami
There are a few
This poem sucks
But it’s a trend
It’s not pureed
It’s Folgers blend
Hablas espanol?
Gordo, Senor?
Aaugh! Not Spanish!
I can’t take no more
Axe through my head
Sew it up quick
The contents of my mind
Even make me sick.
People say there are always times in your life
When you feel the answer is the blade of a knife
A quick slice across the wrists
Then a convulsive clench of fists
As the blood wells, spurts, and drips
An intake of breath through parted lips
Crimson health pouring out of your hands
No more problems and no more demands.
Water
Trickles around stones
From way underground
Places where secrets sit
Still very unfound
It searches and pries
Through caverns and cracks
Picking up, putting down
Glistening, it refracts
Bubbling up, winding through
Under, round, over
Supplying things with itself
From sequoia to clover
Joining, growing, getting more
Gaining much momentum
The tiny little rivulet
Intent upon concentration
Down, down the water goes
Fingerlets, creek, brook
To stream, to river, to mighty ocean
A lengthly journey it took.
Incense – something to burn upon a stick
With many scents, you can take your pick
Pine and pinyon, sandwood, too
They probably even have leather of shoe.
Incense provides a pleasurable smoke
To breath and refresh and relax and stoke
Primeval passions, unleashed from their cell
Let loose from the madhouse by that elusive smell.
So brilliant, so fiery, yet so mellow
It changes, rearranges, and startles a fellow.
A stabilizing factor, possibly disturbed.
Sometimes my appetite has been curbed.
It makes you feel silly, or maybe feel cool
It will make you stand up and sing like a fool.
Now that you’re done, go take a bow
You can tell that I’m sniffing incense right now.
I’m not a ghost
Don’t be afraid
It’s just me in my
Fancy shades
Don’t mess around
Don’t get too hip
Turn up the temperature
Of this comic strip
Too hot to handle
Too cold to hold
Larger than life
We’re big, bad, and bold
Writing out stuff
That don’t make sense
Dogs living with cats
In the wrong tense
I’m not trying to be silly
Not attempting to be dumb
But I bet you’re wondering
Where this babble comes
I tell you it’s spontaneous
Like I said before
If there’s no peanuts left
I’m walking out that door.
Slam!
I wish I could be philosophical
Like the poems written by Jared
But I have tried my hand at profound stuff
And not well have I fared.
I have attempted to compose in classic style
With coolness, structure and order
But, alas, like Alex Pope said
Next to madness I was close to border.
I tried to be romantic in style
Emotion, no structure or composure
But I couldn’t do it; I don’t know why
So that poetry came to its closure.
Realist, naturalist, all those things
Styles and types for poems
But I’ve tried them all and can’t adhere
So I’ll stick with the style that’s my own.
Why?
Why does it have to be this way?
When the fabric of my mind is beginning to fray
Like a bolt of lightning, straight from above
I ask myself, do I deserve your love?
Why?
Why is it always like this?
We laugh, we argue, we fight, we kiss.
I can’t believe it, that you really care
Almost like a game of truth or dare.
Why?
Why is it so hard to say goodbye?
You can make me laugh, you can make me cry.
It’s such a great feeling being in your arms;
Cover me, smother me, in your charms.
Why?
Why can’t I understand
That magic I feel when I hold your hand.
Like electricity through my veins
Soothing and healing my many pains.
Why?
I really believe you’re heaven sent
Hold me, love me, through and through
I’m so lucky because I have you.
Why?
My harmonica
It is good news
Even though it only
Sings the blues.
Like Willie Brown
Harp in hand
Playin’ at the crossroads
Yeah, he’s my man!
I’m feeling great
Yup, just fine
With my old harp
I’m gonna whine.
Shaking all the hills
Playin’ to the beat
Makin’ all the people
Go dancing in the street.
Untitled Poem #11
Posted: June 24, 1987 in PoetryTags: Blood, Cry, Earth, Echo, Heart, Life, Sky, Tears, Wish, World
My life is with what everybody has toyed
Shuddering, quaking, my will is destroyed.
I fall to my knees with a heart-rending cry
That echoes around in an empty blue sky.
Now the tears come, they come like a flood
But it’s not saline moisture, it’s dark crimson blood
Coursing down my cheeks, staining the fair earth
While my life is waning, they giggle in mirth.
Pounding in my ears, pumping in my chest
Why is it that I’m cursed, never blessed?
I hurt so bad, I writhe in pain
Consciousness is so hard to maintain.
Nothing cools me or quenches my thirst.
The throbbing in my brain keeps getting worse
As I see my life spill out before me
The sand turns black with my misery
There’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say
To make the world shut up and go away.
Sorrow overwhelms me, with blood I cry
My last remaining wish is that I wish I could die.
Untitled Poem #10
Posted: June 24, 1987 in PoetryTags: Beast, Bird, Blood, Cry, Eye, Heart, Ring, Sad, Sand, Song, Spirit, Window, Wing
Little bird sitting on the windowsill
Why is it that you look so ill?
What is the matter? What is wrong?
You no longer brighten the day with song.
Your eyes are sad, your feathers ruffled
With what unwholesome beast have you scuffled?
Your spirit is broken, like your bent wing
The clear notes of your cry now have a dull ring
Dirt is matted, dust is caked
Blood on your shoulder where you’ve been raked.
With agonized heart, I search the sands
As this little bird’s life bleeds out through my hands.
Froggacuda's Weblog 