There was an old farmer who lived on a rock
He sat in the meadow just shaking his
Fist at some boys who were down by the crick
Their feet in the water, their hands on their
Marbles and play things at a half passed four
There came a young lady who looked like a
Pretty, young preacher
She sat on the grass, she pulled up her dress
And she showed them her
Ruffles, and laces and white fluffy duck
She said she was learning a new way to
Bring up her children, so they would not spit
While the boys in the barnyard were shoveling
Refuse, and litter from yesterday's hunt
While the girl in the meadow was rubbing her
Eyes at the fellow, down by the dock
He looked like a man with a sizable
Home in the country, with a big fence out front
If he asked her politely, she'd show him her
Little pet dog, who was subject to fits
And maybe she'd let him grab hold of her
Small, tender hands with a movement so quick
And then she'd bend over and suck on his
Candy, so tasty made of butterscotch
And then he'd spread whip cream all over her
Cookies that she had left out on her shelf
If you think this is dirty
You can go f*** yourself!

Pine Cones



Perhaps some page one internet bulletin board threads
occasionally assume a few marginal human attributes
as they wait with ceremonious impatience for validation,
as if a postman may deliver an unexpected perfumed gift
or some invincible puppy love phone will finally ring.

Those on page two and beyond accept their altered status
and understand that going well behind all known moons
in an orbit equating with benign, if not merciful, neglect
is nothing more or less than the essence of the scheme.
Somewhere in a slightly less fictitious corner of the planet

a sheaf of ancient love letters smiles comfortably numb,
unaware of being relegated to the top drawer of a dust
laden bureau in a lakefront summer cabin, where a white
boat with blue trim is innocently dry-docked and the casual
stillness broken only by reluctant pine cones still falling.




................................

I have nothing to say
and I am saying it
and that is poetry




I heard this as part of a realization of a John Cage piece from a concert I went to yesterday. I thought it said quite a bit.

The Blue Ones



Your jeans play on the banisters

of my sleep.

I hear footsteps sometimes.


Your last blue pair of sneakers

walk around

in the parks of my dreams.


I see new grass stains on the toes.

Your white socks

are inside out, I am almost sure.


I wonder if they need pulling

up, again,

right now wherever you are


and if you are running easy

and if those

yellow laces are still untied.




From "While Boston Slept" (Houston, 1981)



..............................

Looking back
at photographs of anonymous people
once precious memories
now deleted
except for one --
Saturday night music
on the porch

an elephant rampages with pent-up fury
bam bam bam...bam bam bam
going door to door on a quest for votes
bam bam bam...bam bam bam
but no one answers. no one cares.
bam bam bam...bam bam bam
no one knows the pachyderm's even there
bam bam bam...bam bam bam
and so it goes from door to door, never a response
bam bam bam...bam bam bam
an endless campaign through the dark of the night
bam bam bam...bam bam bam
perhaps the dawn will set things right.