oh my goodness...destruction!

Hey fellows, here is a new series of poems (that I read for some lucky so-and-sos at an awesome writing group). The first poem is about a pretty little dress. Enjoy!! !



celebrate destruction: of a dress


destruction of your lilac
and your lavender,
your
curt ankle show-er

and your redundant sun dress daisy frock.

war war
to the last of the maidens’

garbs.

we should see all pretty starlets stroll in the daylight
with

sacks and pants and bags and barrels.

destruction of your dress, especially,
my love,
in the alleyway with the newspapers
blowing

and beauty too,
you alone,

just flesh, and the cinder of a raspberry
garment.

some poetry without a series

Hey guys, lately I've been writing a bunch of poetic series, but never fear, I do occasionally get around to writing the stand-alone poem every now and again. Here's one just for you. Enjoy.


never lasting nighttime games


she raced into the kitchen to light
the candles
and she held her breath – that’s
what
lonely girls do of course –
and she counted the tiny flames and
she took a bath and drank some water;

he raced
home on a bike and counted
the pine trees passing –
because when boys are lonely
they try to escape –
and he watched for speeding
cars
and trains.

the land later turned over and
night refused to invert;
the games

that last so sweetly
go

wash away in creek beds, and morning
is inevitable.

the girl dreams of pancakes and
the boy
of
bimbos.

some one sings down the way
on their balcony
and

half the neighborhood despises the melody;
the other half
is
elegant and refused to form
an opinion.

and somewhere else far away too,
a man takes off his glasses
and
sobs in his favorite chair;
and

some woman talks to herself
while lying
awake in
bed.

spies in the field - green life

The last poem about spies! In your neighborhood! In your bathroom! Under your rug right this instant! Also, do you listen to Coldplay? Write a comment if you get the joke! Zing!


spies in the field: green life


it’s been decided:
the future is the despot’s
toy;

and we watch through windows
as large men
shimmy unhappy
as their gals take turns on
telephones
giving over the news of the grand
old
broke.

we are such
fragile things,
beautiful,
lingering on the bylines
and

watching silly barbarians dress in lipstick
and kiss lampposts under neon
nights in the drift of taxi
cab

oblivion.

oblivion, we don’t care.
oblivion, we
are spectacle.

fireworks too, we guess,
at the end of everything,

because who doesn’t like a festival?
a
parade?

spies in the field - future

Hey folks, the penultimate poem to one of my latest series. Enjoy!


spies in the field: future


our purpose has been
to mystify,
to betray, to take cuts
of glass and stick them
around

wicked ways,
to grab hobos’ hands, to toss
strangers’ suitcases into
purple dumpsters,

to chase rabid dogs with pipes,
to eat old food, to wrap
our hands in gloves, to take
many pictures, to
cheer for losers and to

wait around empty bus stops.

peer away now, you’ll
give the whole thing
away.

where will we be then?

spies in the filed - lillies in the field

Here's the next poem in one of my latest series adorned by a photo from illustrious Marfa, Texas! Woo!

spies in the field: lilies in the field


we sincerely hope for heaven
someday, as all
do,

in a field of holly or
lily or
berry, of clover or leaf or
twig.

we also dream of the great heaven
of steam, of engine
and smokestack,
of truck and cantilever.

the lilies of the field are
not angry at
us for wanting other things;
lilies have
no

feeling save benevolence.

our violence is what will undo
us;

hell is the same thing as a bar
fight and a blank wall
lit by a neon sign.

spies of the field: numbers racket

Hey guys, I was away in Marfa for my birthday, so it's been a while, but continuing my new series 'spies of the field,' here is the next poem. Also, the pictures I'll be posting for the remainder of the series are taken from Marfa and west Texas (and maybe a secret cave?!).

spies in the field: numbers racket


the girl with the blue skirt,
a ruffled imitation of cloud,
sings
a symphony as she drunkenly
gazes at the other guys in
shrewd business suits;
tell us, then,

exactly what we are, what
our make is, our
best day, our worst day,
a tragedy, and a
triumph.

the girl removes the glasses from
her face and now becomes more beautiful.
beautiful women dance around
the night, but sometimes
they hide in apartments, under
blankets, near cat tails,
in refrigerator light,
and
always bound by an old sweater,
a new dress, some
pagan shoes, or a guffy old
typewriter.

the numbers are click clacking
around the lick
slick signs of this town;
get out now, they are trying to tell us,
but spies and deception are
brothers.

we remain undone.


And check out bohococo.blogspot.com, and dumbsville.blogspot.com, too for other Marfa/west Texas related postings.