Poetry

In honor of Pope Francis
Here's a little rap I wrote, you can sing it, note by note. Sistine Chapel chimney the angels are calm white smoke alarm is the old one embalmed blasting your psalms shed the Benedict qualms Rome Buenos Aires Vatican charm duvet keep it warm no time for snoozing- this shit is oozin', outta my veins ...
i am my mother’s compliments the heat of her clapping hands compassion on an infinite vacation
Poetry Is Not Written In Stone
The book of Lord Schist was on the short list with his rock-solid verse that shouldn' t be missed. His writing is terse and it comes with a twist he gives all those who curse a slab on the wrist.
i lay awake counting my years i have become an accountant of life segments when i walk in the forest around here i can leave the path and navigate by the sun walk on a plain in all directions this winter shall pass, and thinking of spring, i imagine being something wild, like a mother ...
Convenience Store
The woman on the cardboard is fading. Her elven hair has caught dust. A thousand squirrels run from underneath her. The year is almost over. On the shelves: nylon socks. Now I am present here. My groin is stationary at this orange table. The machines are roaring. The microwave. Coffee. The blinds. The cold air. Freshener gets sprayed here with some frequency.
Oh the wonder of subjectivity!
Parasite subdivide erudite blundering souls with no rewards the stillness of aging! halflove The rocky hills and mountains, like teeth outside of me the hum of household machines and me, still there, faithful to the secret of being the present person who sat there and felt that
Beat
Sex is a zombie with teeth made of glass I want to give all my time to an insect, who knows only one flower & makes love in it Shelter in the bulbous beauty of life itself away from the the carnivore machines Our time's a tigress jumping at the fat bars of her cage ...