Captain America is dead. The country mourns in choreographed amusement to the Dub Step funeral march of garden gnomes and the grand marshal ghost of Lincoln, dragging his axe. While the aging body double of JFK loses his last imprinted memories of Marilyn to the plucky blonde bombshell nurse of the last soap opera serial, …
Category Archive: Poetry
Mar 17
trying to draw John Darnielle’s nose
for Frankie Metro, California, and the Mountain Goats its like rolling down hills littered with broken glass hotel yellow octagons and floral pattern carpet squares smeared across the wall of the BART station rattling down the tracks i lean out of the cable car and see flashes of the bay between half eaten buildings a …
Mar 17
today is Richard Braughtigan’s birthday: happy birthday Richard Braughtigan
i’d like to write books but it seems like i always end up cutting holes in them living in heliocentric daydreams where aging astronauts build houses on the sun to keep the depression away and there is a fire in my pocket that would make the human torch feel jealous and the fire in my …
Mar 17
Reckless
Have I crossed that line? Where I should feel penitent for wanderlust of the impervious mind I am The same old mare with the fish net harness Who left macabre red sugar traces Up and down his boyish spine And with a quick cut of the jawline Could leave minions crawling in her high heeled …
Mar 17
I Was The Girl They Whispered About
big as I was I still felt the brush of crumpled paper and orange peels bounce off my shoulders on the school bus. Me stubbornly staring Dad’s Chevy skully out the window When I got up the nerve to look back everything went blurry a swirl of pale faces like the girls in the Carrie …
Mar 17
This is a petty poem
about a girl with ratty hair who has a book published and I don’t. SOUR GRAPES! you cry. And you are right but it doesn’t mean her poems aren’t crap. I feel very much like Bukowski here – or Linkin Park I hate my rhymes but I hate everyone else’s more… Really I am not …
Mar 17
How To Cook in a Coffee Pot
Mom cleans the rooms so we can stay rent free. Two beds, a bathroom, and a TV – the Olympics are playing which is important to me. I never miss a chance to see the tumbling girls, swimming women, running stars who win gold medals. Some of them younger than me and they already have …
Mar 17
D.A.R.E.
I already knew some of the drugs. By fifth grade, my mom had grown skunk plants in the you-must-not -open-closet. My brother cut his foot on the mirror with the white snow. He shouldn’t have crawled under the bed. The work sheet showed a list of ways to influence someone to do drugs. Next to …
Feb 01
american Poet’s Manifesto
Is the tradition of the american Poet Poverty, insanity, & death Dramatic people living dramatic lives The american Poet is a tough bunch Tough as Bukowski’s Hollywood streets Real as Neruda at a Redsox game Bob Kaufman crazy in the streets Arrested again for spouting spontaneous Poems On top of cars It’s shock treatment again …
Feb 01
Grease Poet
Carl the mechanic was the first poet I ever met— livin’ at home takin’ a few classes at the local CC I think us younger guys in the neighborhood kinda looked up to him because he was sort of a regular guy but when he came out cryin’ one day and showed us his first …