I’ve met a pastor named Shandy
And vicar named Brandy
And a sister named Whiskey, it’s true
But for my tribulations
Across this creation
There’s but one thing that can get me through
For when I’m gone
And it’s rough
It’s that licorice stuff
That leads me to my life again
He’s a Greek
He’s a cloudy-white freak…
Father Ouzo, forgive me my sins. Continue reading
Here he comes
All the ifs and hows
Not a sound
Reaches my ears Continue reading
Please forgive the presumptions of my last letter
and accept my thanks for your kind regard.
I would prefer it,
if it is all the same to yourself,
that I would continue to receive the Nebulous Thing. Continue reading
“I am writing a poem,”
“It is called Francophones.” Continue reading
Are you bibliokept or biblioklept?
He leans towards the former, unkempt
A trickster in mixture old in spirits
A fixture for quicker burns seared in
Drinking while he smokes in revelry
From when Gethsemane was a better dream Continue reading
I sing that song!
That old song!
The dirty shoulders, the styrofoam
The great murky black
I could write with it
Write the world with it
Right the world with it!
And I will scribble a song sugar sweet and syrupy
I will eat them all
The freeways where asylum can be found!
Sins of dirty dishwater
Can be made clean by fried sugar
That is the American night, Jack Kerouac!
We will read our Carl Sandburg until we are sick
Then we will sleep
Unless we are at Fourth Coast
And a man named Vahan is there.
My head will never be right
Because there are too many words stuffed in.
That is alright.
That is all right.
Written in the basement of the Kalamazoo Public Library
9 miles left of freeway
I’ve not a drop to spare
By muscle or by piston
I’ll sure as shit get there!
Paid up all my bills
Squared the deeds, made my will
I’m goin’ down, down, down
Down down town to Kalamazoo
Steve Translates a Hayren from the German Book that Mike Gave Him
I envy him, who with love
Escaping with his lover in arms
Barely over the broken bridge
They leave but none of their charms
Rime and snow carries their steps
Their trail, to blur and harm
He finds his way to gardens
And love was new and warm
Lady of the Evenin’, or Mistress of the Night
I can’t decide to run and hide
Now or never, fight or flight
She’s wearing black and cape that’s wide
A shroud of shining steel
She might burn you with cigarettes
But I guess that’s the appeal…
There are nineteen poems that never existed
Nor will they ever exist
They are locked between pages
In a library of never were
Shelved with forgotten thoughts
You can shout silently all you like
But you’ll never read them
Of course, you know this
And you ache anyway.