Mrs. Vitoldi

When I start to lose it
When the circus music starts to play in slow-mo
I cry out to the Father
I get down on my knees and think about Eisenstein’s buggy
I close my eyes and listen to the wheels roll down each silent step
I see the jitter and the jump
The dust and the scratches
I hear Joshua marching on Jericho
The trumpets spraying fear
Walls falling and Russians crying
Eisenstein does Jericho
Propaganda physique
Hanging like meat
In the priestly silent film balance
My prayer answered and grace abounds

William B Williams

There are mornings when I have heard
I hover above myself like a bearded hummingbird
Wondering in flight, what I am doing there
Why is he, why am I, sitting in that chair
There are words being thought about,
And processed, being pushed out
Like Playdough through a hole
Sentences I see me trying to cajole
Verses that don't really work
Moving words without passion like a clerk
Excuses could be made
And maybe they are made
I want to do something requiring a pith helmet
Want to be chased by federal cops for being a bandit
I love elephants but I want to shoot one
Then stand on his mighty head while raising my gun
I want to die wrestling a komodo dragon
Fetch a million dollars for my pith helmet at an auction

Debris

Hurry letters
Get out
Burn up
Like dead leaves
Burning in a steel drum
Words pressing
My ribs
Hurry sundown
End it
Shit-list these images
Deliver me
From this empty paged book
Prices lined up
In a stack
Hard bound
Soft bound
Hell bound
Ignominiously remembering my youth
Even though God told a woman
To tell me not to
She said
He said
Build a bigger tent
And remember not your shame

Under The Tomato Garden

Vast mutations of mammal heat
Warm the earth's dieing core
What is going on down there?
What are things turning in to?
Strange things are afoot in the meat-eating district
Vegetables lying in bed
Electricity coming from dammed fish
Get this hair off my lampshade
We need Godfather oranges
Mammal babies really crying
Would it help if I said something pretty?
Change is good
Jolly good
Like purple in the morning

iDon't Remember

Open your eyes
And you will see
People carrying their hopes
Dreams slung over their shoulders
Desires stuffed in their wallets
Motivation drowned by bottled water

Go to school and get educated
Come out like a bunt cake
Give your life to plastic
To holograms of soaring birds
Something to shoot for
Low interest goals

Open your eyes
And you will see
You shaving again
Nick
Shave again
Nick

Never see your music
In your hands
Or being carved by a needle
We are all
Compressed
Ones and zeros

Blessed Vices Of Adam

Blessed Vices Of Adam

Beacon between my fingers
Pungent smoke lingers
Warm porcelain in my hand
Tastes of a dusty land
Rolled on the thighs of virgins
Schimmelpenninck beckons
And the bean follows after
Each sip tasting cheaper
Each breath struggling more
What I adore, my lungs abhor
Of what once was
The earth that once was
Now preserved in the leaf
Preserved in the roasted bean
Tortured with fire
And steeped in water
Toys to occupy boredom
I taste the filth of Adam

A Sestina On Six Words By Omar Sharif

Finally still at night is the bridge
Streetsweepers perform 25 MPH purification
Great steel brushes spin a dirty crescent
Half clean, half dirty, half true
Gravel, oil, and cigarette butts hide in the cracks of this table
The machines come sucking and spinning and all is well

Look over the railing, into the dark, into the well
The darkest secrets of men are beneath the bridge
Little hands smash peas under the table
Early bird garage sale, haggled purification
Three generations of unwanted vegetables speak true
Sneaky upturned hands press and wipe a green crescent

Blacktop shimmers by high yellow lights and the solo crescent
The urchin leans over the rail and the wind plucks his hat well
Currents of air and of the river whisper true
The hat rides gentle white caps away from the bridge
Sweat rings on John Deer foam gives needed purification
This river, an old man, arms behind his back, strolls under the table

Searching tires prowl infrequently across the tar rock table
Dingy autos displaying a lone palm under a crescent
Bumper stickers that represent the summer purification
The hatless urchin now waits in perpetual want of well
Sparks from streetsweeper brushes draw him always to the bridge
Stars shoot to the curb and the concrete remains true

The brushes quit their motor driven orbit, once faithful, once true
Streetsweepers bring their brushes up from the table
There are some things that can never be swept off this bridge
The urchin sleeps under headlines in the shape of a crescent
Dawn's traffic wishes he would sink like Peter, wishes him well
Offer up the hat, offer up the sleeper, to the old man for purification

Then the old men become one through chlorinated purification
Floating face up, gazing off into the universe of true
The worn out John Deer cap, green cap, in white caps, and all is well
All life depends on the level, the flow of the annual table
And now this one old man sleeps under headlights, still a crescent
Napping and walking and collecting the sin of men under the bridge

1921

Jackie Coogan man
Damn
Sweet kid
Uncle Fester, and I want to die

1972 man
I think I would rather
See you than anybody else
Charlie hugged Jackie

I wanted them to kiss
Wanted Jackie to throw
A rock through a window
Silent crash

Oblivion’s sour smack
Like Old Spice
Remember
They forget while he shaves


1984 man
Jackie clutched his chest
And one more time
Kissed Charlie on the mouth

The Tramp man
Shuffle off
Take The Kid with you
Heaven fades to black

If you can see through them they are real

Withered eyes
Silver-wire temples
Talisman hear
Ginger snap skin
Wet paper skin
Broken in

Awake at four
Asleep at ten
In the AM
Showerless
Powerless
Hourless

Rows of books
Decks of cards
Stacks of letters
Turn them
Cut them
Cut them

Lunch again
Sit in that spot
Creaking chair bones
Sugarless
Tasteless
Eat less

Pay for time
Get some change
To jingle in the robe
Nickels
Rubbed
Together

Asleep at four
Awake at ten
In the PM
Agates
Aloft
Against the lamp light

The Ink On Milonga De Manuel Flores

One night while reading Borges
I saw extra ink on Milonga de Manuel Flores
Where did it come from, this stain?
Left of the first stanza, my thumb hid the vein
Upon reading the second stanza I discovered
The varicose ink near, "Manuel Flores va a morir,"” hovered
I have never finished the poem to this day
The ink distracts in maniacal way
I look at my hand in the dawning, "“Miro en el alba mis manos"
I look at the veins contained there, "“Miro en las manos las venas"
This is where I have forever stopped
Where the extra ink of Milonga de Manuel Flores dropped

Teeter Totter

I love our bird
Our bird scares me
Why
It could fly away at any moment
So
That’s what birds do

And

Skeeball is a popular arcade game in which balls are rolled up a ramp and launched towards a target. Depending where it falls, each ball can score 10, 20, 30, 40, or 50 points. A player gets the same number of balls per game, no matter how well or poorly they score.

Kira and Daquan decided to have a Skeeball contest. They each played one game to see who would get the highest score. A description of their contest follows:

Kira scored as many 30's as Daquan did 20's.
Daquan scored one more 40 than he did 20.
Kira scored the same number of 50's as she did 30's.
Daquan scored twice as many 30's as he did 20's.
Kira scored one less than twice as many 20's as Daquan did.
Daquan scored two more 40's than Kira did 10's.
Kira scored the same number of 40's as she did 10's.
When it was all over, Daquan had won by 10 points. Write and solve an equation to answer these two questions:

How many balls are rolled in a game of Skeeball?

What was the final score of the contest?

What It Takes

uninaugurated
invitro
in vino veritas
pliny ipse dixit

bad politics
baby
better better
bull

stale
aint fresh
ate fish
eight much

serpintine
baby
bad politics
serpigo (i said spread)

dilute
truth
truce
baby truce

hack
ney
ed
the horse

point guard
threat
triple threat
three threat downtown

say
what you
say
in sane veritas

Cup of Joseph

One warm soft evening
I pressed my coffee black
Read my Portable Conrad
Three pages and I went back

Look at these sentences
Words, rhythms, cadence
Prose that I may never know
Monstrous images provoke offense

Bringing light to truth can be ugly
Beautiful words do the job
Hard to swallow this coffee
Conrad’s Joe makes the gut sob

Untitled

Dawn and dusk are tractorbeams
The poet tries but cannot pull away
From the sun rising in the east
And coyotes howling in the west

When words come slow
Close your eyes and look
At the darkness that will show
Soundwaves under pink-black lids

Waves of broken leaves
Waves of the cricket's lament
Patient bats under eaves
Clouds cropdusting the moon

Though the stars have not left
Open your eyes now, it is daylight
Nocturnal campion open and red
Moths doing the work of sleeping bees

A Sestina On Six Words By Patsy Cline (by Jeremy)

When you feel there are too many people, wait till midnight
Walk on your own down the streets and feel strange
Alone with God, the deer, the skunks, the stars and the crazy
Spiders hard at work on homes made of sticky string
Unlucky moths caught and spun by multitasking arms
Vigilant eyes kept open to see what is under the stars for you

Before nightfall she falls apart speaking to you
Eyes roll backwards and you have departed before midnight
Her face is in the stars and you reach upwards with your arms
The stars close their eyes and the satellites think you look strange
Funny, ‘cause they are nothing but metal tied to gravity’s string
There’s a Russian monkey in a rocket that thinks you are crazy

She is only a girl, but it’s the stolen rib that makes you crazy
Like everybody else, she cannot see what is inside you
A heart wrapped like a baseball, no cover, just string
Spun, spun, spun and wrapped, till the color of midnight
And when you see a heart that looks shiny you feel strange
Fear, with a shovel, buries your head in your arms

You recognize the spinning, the multitasking, the spider arms
What you would give now to be alive and well and crazy
The Russian monkey realizing, it is I, not he, that is strange
Or for satellites to die, plummet to the street, and fall on you
High-def broadcasts of you departing from her at midnight
Your fingers start looking for the end, the beginning of the string

Scratch, tug, pull, tear, rip, slash, shred, slice, cut, carve, the string
Round and round and round, spooling it up your arms
God, the deer, the skunks, the stars, watch you turn midnight
All but your heart, shining now, the Russian monkey going crazy
Eight-legged orbit puts things into perspective for you
And you snorkel with that rib now, and she feels strange

Exposed like a stubbed toe, murder of the bondage feels strange
Held back like a levee, thus the power of one long string
Dilated eyes in the grass glow by the light of you
Spools of defensive thread adorn your arms
Hourglasses on the black backs of widow spiders spin like crazy
A universe full of monkeys closing shielded eyes at midnight

Touchdown Dogs7 (life and times of spa salesmen)

Newman took his Hot Pocket out of the microwave.
"What is it with you and those things?" said Trav.
"Did I ever tell you about the date I brought here?"
"To the store?"
"Yeah," said Newman, taking a bite from the corner of the Hot Pocket.
"You brought a date to the shop?" said Trav.
"Yeah. We went and ate at Subway and then I brought her back here to go hot tubbing."
"Newman."
"What? We didn't do anything."
"Dude. Who are you dating that let you take them to Subway for a date?"
"You ever have the pizza sub there?"
"You came back here..."
"It was a bad idea. We came back here and were going to take a hot tub. I told her she could change in the bathroom and that I would change in the breakroom. So, I go into the break room with my towel and my shorts and I see the fridge and I get a little hungry."
"Bah! You just ate!"
"I was hungry. I put a Hot Pocket in and changed while it was cooking."
"You were nude in the break room?"
"Here is the worst part," said Newman.
"You already said the worst part."
"The worst part is that I was standing there in my trunks eating my Hot Pocket."
"No shirt?" said Trav.
"Just trunks. I was on the last bite, and there was this real nice piece of pepperoni. A big one, and I pulled it out with my mouth and some sauce dripped on my nipple."
"I hate you Newman."
"It was hotter than hell and I used my finger to get it off, and I was going, 'ahh ahh,' cause it hurt. My date was standing there watching."
"I hate you."

Kite Strings

They fly like kites
Broken spider webs
Tethered to tree tops high
Filament

Backlighted and swaying
Clenching dead crisp yellow
Leaves the season staying
Changing

I walked through one
Jeremy the Macy's balloon
Spiders' Thanksgiving fun
Watching

The spider string shows no bias
Content to grasp any and all
From the lowest to the highest
Perennial

They fly from the trees
They hold to the straw
Angel hair on blackberries
Translucent

Katie Cuoric Interviews Jackie Coogan

KC: In what ways did Charlie Chaplin become a father figure to you?

JC: I was his plaything.

KC: He abused you?

JC: No. I was his puppet. I had my own father really. Didn't need that from Charlie.

KC: You call him Charlie still?

JC: That was his name.

KC: And being a child working with such a well know figure at the time.

JC:

KC:

JC: Was there a question?

KC: Were you really crying as the people from the orphanage ripped you away from Chaplin?

JC: Really crying? I was crying, but acting like I was crying.

KC: But describe how you wanted to kill yourself when they tried to take you from your father. In detail if you would.

JC:

KC: I know it must be hard. But if you could. If you could cry now while you think about how Chaplin was like your father.

Beautiful.Sweet.Gripping.Brave.

Isn't this
Supposed to be
Beautiful?
Aren't I
Supposed to ignore
The cracks in my skin?
My heel
An anvil
Ten parched mouths

Isn't this
Supposed to be
Sweet?
Aren't I
Supposed to ignore
My ghost-home heart?
Thunderegg
Split open
Red and hollow

Isn't this
Supposed to be
Gripping?
Aren't I
Supposed to ignore
I'm boring?
Industrial light
Smothers the chance
Of pirate ships

Isn't this
Supposed to be
Brave?
Aren't I
Supposed to ignore
That I'm a coward?
Wet hands
White hands
Cover my eyes

Man With The Red Hat

The man with the red hat leaned against the great wall. The wall was a massive device of division and protection, but while the man propped himself against it, he thought nothing of its long history. He looked at the pieces of hardened clay that he held in his hands and waited for the legend to come true. The sun was setting and he knew daylight was coming to a quick end.

The pieces of clay were round discs and long tubes of formed and fired earth. The man held the pieces up in the direction of the setting sun and forced his eyes out of focus. The clay did not move.

One half of the sun sank slowly behind the horizon and the man in the red hat put his head down in disappointment. He closed his small hands around the clay pieces and could feel the dust of a thousand years rubbing off on his fingers. He let the pieces fall to the ground and stood up.

The man was startled by a deep groan coming from behind him. He turned around and looked at the great wall and saw nothing but stone. He heard the groan again from the top of the great wall and it was then that he saw a black horse with no rider. The horse snorted and threw his head in an upward direction and the last sliver of sun fell behind the edge of the earth.

The pieces of clay began to rattle at his feet and the man looked down and saw that they were slowly standing themselves up. A white ball of light came from the middle of the swirl of movement; the disks and tubes beginning to form a familiar shape.

First it was the torso. Then the legs took their places as the ball of light disappeared. Arms attached themselves at broad shoulders and a shield and staff formed from the dust at the man's feet. The now headless body was rising at a quickening pace; growing larger and larger until it was bigger than the man was. The man shook violently as fear traveled from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. The warrior stood before him, headless.

The staff rose to twice the height of the man with the red hat and the massive stone hand that held it was closed like a vise. The warrior held the staff out at his side, at length, and then brought his other hand around, giving him a two fisted grip. As the last particles of dusk disintegrated, the staff was swept across the neck of the man and his head fell in a lazy arch to the ground. The red hat was hit by a gust of frigid wind and came to rest against the great wall.

Wild Kingdom

mole crickets
saber grasshoppers
four-eyed anableps
sea hares
salesmen