shepard fairey








gustav dore

our boys

death and burial


Tuesday, June 2, 2009

A Narrative Poem

should tell a story, you’re thinking by now, but
I’m way ahead of you; bear with me now: let me
just catch hold of my climbing gear, and here, seat
this hook in under your breastplate, HA, good thing

we’re wearing armor! Anyway, story was
Cleveland Cate, just to lose weight, took a Hummer
for a drive once in Spring. The larks were out, it was
quite a nice day. She thought, I’ll walk back for exercise. . .

Now, don’t get ahead of yourself, I know,
you’re thinking: How’s she get the car back?
I gave that some thought myself but decided, finally,
the last thing I need is a diet.

As for Cate and getting the car back, I'll say this much,
she didn’t. But what that means to you, or to me--or
to anyone, anywhere--is up to each of us as individuals,
I'm thinking. That’s our right.

that’s our story.

I’ve Been Sinking

in deep: every day parting these clouds with cracked fingers
I come upon mind giving muscles a comb-over.

We don't speak, anymore. And my yellow fat, what's still
strung of that, is waved by an uncertain wind.

I’m Still Not Having Any

more’s the case, I’ve hardened
into something resembling the
Masai spear, a fearsome instrument,
deployed just so, though I’ve no
sights on office

The Racist

in the mirror was likewise no prize
in other departments. Juice first gone
to vinegar, then turning hard, and bitter;
whither limb fled afore youth, or the other
way round, he couldn't say, nor answer
the bell at sixty-eight. The hell
with the crown.

Live At Seven

I’ll stop at nothing before total world domination,
and maybe not then.

Furthermore, I’ve an agenda quite prepared for launch,
if I detect the faintest hint of resistance,

which is, of course, futile, and probably, plus that,
it won’t even help.


how when unguentine at long last becomes strictly unavailable
I’ll already be gone.

Fortunately so, the rub’s off the apple, and if ever an overture
to archery was in order . . . zen em, that would be now.

The Last Time

I saw Fredricka, she was speeding away in a Benz;
flapping pink helpless arms from das boot.
The curses she nevertheless hurled back at me,
from within, were thus muffled, and difficult
to understand, in German, but I caught their gist,
which went something like this:
you evil stupid disgusting prick, I'd rather be
returned this instant to Hades' driest bowel,
and blinded, chained, and afflicted by boils, scabies,
and 2000 species of parasite, forever remain . . .
and so on, she went on; it seemed she would continue
until both the earth and I would be cinders.
I ran beside the car, snapping now and then at
those same plump arms that had cradled me, held
my last best hopes as an honest man.
Once or twice I nipped a tire.
. . . be taken prisoner by Turks and sewn into a sack
and sold, she still railed from trunk, where were stored
as well the spoils of the last nine days, out of reach,
of course, now I’d hooked hard again left.
A bent man’s way passes under the arch.

Haag UnLeashed

what could I do,
what with all we’d been through? They hadn’t
a thimble’s dram uncorked ‘fore I had her forques undone,
not long after she busted all the metal loose of her hind-
quarters, which famously rip-sawed appendages
can do some damage, as well you know, if
you've been paying attention. Haag, Eternal Queen for Life of
the Giant Black Dung Beetles was a formidable foe, which is why
I'd loosed her, expecting, I admit, some smidgen of gratitude
for old times sake, at least. But giving barely a glance at
her former captors, she turned on me, flaring
dorsal flanges furiously, emitting her regal scent
before her, as always, all unknowingly. And oblivious she was
to its effect on me. Stunned again I was, as if from the first,
and it was this, my friends, not the ripping
socket from bone, etc., that did me in.
As far as I know I did die there, and quite happy
I was to do so, in the circumstances.