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Posted 6:16 PM by Pauly

2003 Part II: Summer & Fall Poems

All Poems written by Paul McGuire from June thru Sept. 2003


Angelic Desolation

Do her cats know that she
Will not be feeding them today?
Or tomorrow?
Or the day after?
Are they aware?

I trudge through the daily reminders,
Like a poor assembly line lifer,
Stuck in a Alaskan fishery,
Slicing and dicing,
Knee deep in rotting fish guts.

The hungover taste of recent misery
Lingered in my shadowy room,
When I awoke from a mediocre sleep.
The desperate sounds of garbage trucks and
Seagulls shitting on tree trunks greeted me.

On cloudy Saturday mornings when I awoke from
My restless slumber,
I made instant decisions on serious topics;
God, Family, Country… and Fear.
When will I be able to whisper all four at once?

The blonde with the sunflowers
Smiled when she
Bought me used books with
Tantalizing aromas
Of decade old must.

The classics were wedged
Among the clutter of
Tennis rackets, over-sized parkas,
And outdated travel magazines in the
Back of an untidy closet.

The hallow emptiness of the surgeon’s den
Lured the neophyte into devious antics.
He toiled eighty hours a week, knee deep in blood and
Guts, Before his junkie daughter
Eagerly sold his old Philosophy text books.

$1.25 she was awarded on the Lower East Side,
The small payout warmed her exposed belly, now
Hoping to score some rock from Julio,
She pawned whatever else she could
Like Mommy’s exalted pearls, to settle the score.

She longed the orgasmic numbing sensation of
Freshly cooked junk, the complete opposite head trip of
Anxiety, before she got busted and
Thrown up against an aging wall and frisked
By trigger-happy NYPD officers.

I read the book, a sad collection of poems, that
The girl with the sunflowers
Bought me from the crowded bookstore,
After the jittery owners bought the tattered book from a
Suburban casualty, lifted from her King’s castle.

I casually flipped through the marked pages and
Only odd and solemn thoughts of her confused gray cats
Greeted me when I slowly turned each page,
While I took a dump and read aloud a poem called
Edge.

Do her cats know that she
Will not be feeding them today?
Or tomorrow?
Or the day after?
Are they aware?


Friday Poem: Drunk Flies

The drunk flies zipped around
My sunken forehead,
Darting back and forth,
Jolly, yet still annoying.
I admired the unusual patterns that the
Inscets seem to effortlessly travel.
When the police are not looking,
I secretly spit on old
Pictures of deceased family members.
Separate insane thoughts of vivid
Inncoent images
Splatter themslevs onto the fronts
Of my seemless eyelids.

A melodious sharp squeal halted me in
My tracks.
I got agitated, just like when forty
Coked up circus midgets tossed
Firecrackers and gregariously played
Hopsotch through the narrow
Hallways winding through my dense head,
Last Memorial Day,
When I visited
Atlantic City and the blonde girl with the
Sunflowers giggled when I stole her a
Snickers bar.

Coastal flooding makes me laugh.
Too many stomach aches makes me cry.
And if you spell the word,
C-A-N-K-E-R S-O-R-E,
I would shit gleefully in my faded jeans.


Sunday Poem: Sleeping Rain Dogs

I searched several weeks for the fountain,
The one "not made by the hands of man."
Alas, I was unable to discover
The secret location.
Maybe it was just a pipe dream?

I woke up to the pitter patter of a
Sober rain last Thursday
Before I wandered into the House of God.
I slumped in the last row and wept,
Where I shed dry tears because I
Could no longer hide the immense
Feelings.

I cried and pulled my hair.
My eyes swelled,
When a gaggle of transparent thoughts
About the tall girl with the sunflowers sideswiped me,
Like a NYC cab out of control.
I felt the fear throbbing in my hands
Knowing that I will never whisper her name again.

Sometimes rocks do float when you
Throw them into a pond.
Ask me later, after I dry myself off.


Saturday Poem: Cheese & Stifler's Mom

My cheddar cheese sandwich melted in the icebox and
I sat in disgust and yelled at my
Cat,
Who sat on the edge of the toilet and
Made fun of a
Drowning spider.
The girl with the sea shell eyes
Smiled then ordered in Chinese food,
while we drank several glasses of Merlot with
Stiffler's mother.



Friday Poem: Faded Ribbon

The typewriter ribbon is faded
And the melodious sounds of Beatles cover songs
Waft my way, and I giggle at those
Black eyed wiggling girls with the Corona's tucked
Underneath their skirts and the limes wedged in between
Their clenched teeth while the
Young actress sadly rehearses lines from
A Shakespeare play that no one will ever see because
They are too consumed with eating Nacho chips and
Watching Jerry Springer.
We will now retun you to your
Regularly scheduled bowel movement.


Thursday Poem: The Incessant Rain

The incessant rain duped me when I woke up
Next to the girl with the sea shell eyes.
She sneezed and I slipped out of a reckless dream cycle
With ancient memories and cloudy flashbacks of
Misty Seattle mornings and foggy Bellingham afternoons,
Where little kids play "touch the monkey" with
Dirty old men in dark trenchcoats.


Wednesday Poem: Unwanted Rain Stains

Unwanted rain stains the poorly mixed concrete
On my cluttered damp terrace
Where little puddles join forces to form small lakes.
Each droplet of acid rain majestically ripples through
Teasing my heavy eyelids suggesting
That I need more rest.
When was the last time I fell into a deep slumber?
And dreamed dreams of long walks along
Crystal blue beaches and white sandy waters?
With those cheesy umbrella rum drinks, glued to my
Itchy fingers, while the lanky girl
With the freshly cut sunflowers once told me a story
About myself and a cat without any ears,
Who ignored every word I said.


Tears of a Clown

If there is a smile on my face,
It's only there to fool the public.
The unsympathetic vultures circle
Overhead in attack formation,
Ready to swoop in and pick at
My beleaguered bones.

I am unable to comfortably sigh because
The anemic circus clown stole the last
Few emotions that I had saved up and
Hid in a small leather pouch that
I was given many many, years ago.

That was swiped along with the last
Few inklings of my delicate sanity,
Which has wavered back and forth
Between calmness and chaos.

The calm, warm feelings of long walks
Down white sandy beaches,
With crystal blue waters slowly
Rolling up along the shore,
Soothing my weary feet as I walk next to
A faint image of someone I was in love with
Once, a long time ago,
Are now a faint dream peppered
With unclear thoughts and faded memories.

The chaos trickles down from overhead.
First, a couple of droplets hit the
Now expanding bald spot on my head.
Then the once steady rhythmic and hypnotic
Downfall accelerated into a messy downpour.
My entire body is now soaked and
If there were a smile on my face,
It was only there to fool the public.


Bryant Park

I sit in Bryant Park and I watch all the Five o'clock People scurry off, released from their cubicles they rush away down Fifth Avenue, dozens, hundreds, thousands. A flashback of a scene from the Matrix. I am alive as I will ever be, yet everything around me is as distant as far as Saturn's moon are from the Oregon Coast, my detachment thrills and disturbs my child like eyes.

I could feel a rare summer breeze. I could hear the background cacophony, conflicting city sounds echoing and dancing, horns honking from Al Qaeda supporting cabbies, bus breaks screeching to a halt, express delivery trucks beeping as they back up. A snot nosed child laughs, then a pigeon shits on a tourist from Nebraska.

The traffic light changes. A swarmy mass of pedestrians converge while I am pushed as far out onto the fringe as I have ever been. My tense back up against the sharp wall of reality. I sigh with the thoughts of futility and irresponsibility dancing in front of me with intimidating ghosts of old memories and forgotten dreams.

The minutes accumulate and I stare out into nowhere. Something real and vibrant, traits I sought out incessantly, now limped it's way down the street into a vacant lot, scattered with broken glass from cheap wine bottles and burnt out light bulbs.

The illumination vanished and the walk down the street became fabricated. The three minute jaunt from the lobby to the subway whispers hollow wood sounds that seduce the walking cliches that walk right in front of me. Their insidious conformity shines in their visionless eyeballs.

A suit on a cell phone almost ran over a group of trust fund yentas with freshly painted manicured toes, the unoriginal ones carrying Gucci handbags with tiny yapping poodles given French sounding names by their malcontent owners. Tourists in shorts and 'I LOVE NY' T-shirts quickly pull out their digital cameras, their disposable cameras, their video cameras. Their desire to photograph a scene which now makes me nauseous.

A black homeless man jingles his Starbucks cup filled with pennies and dimes and a Canadian Quarter. A sad fat woman munches down on a Big Mac, as she gripped her crumpled McD's bag. A hungry construction worker sidesteps a woman with a baby carriage so he can get home in time to eat leftovers. A thirsty alcoholic shakes his way through the crowd, his mind wanders to the afterthoughts of a double scotch. An addictive smoker chain smokes in front of a group of retarded school children. An old man carries a briefcase that looked like the one my father used to have. A distressed Ukrainian taxi driver considers running over a group of pedestrians in the crosswalk. A gay man hums a show tune. A young woman glides by and I catch a whiff of her perfume, and it reminds me of an old girlfriend, that used to wear her hair in a French Twist when she painted. A content man whistles a song. An insane red head hopes that I'll notice that she's not wearing a bra and underwear. A lonely secretary contemplates suicide. She doesn't because she has no one to look after her three cats. A cynic sits and thinks out loud. Pigeons fly overhead, some may or may not carry the Monkeypox. A pickpocket slithers away with someone's $22.00 Metrocard, only to be hit by a speeding Mercedes from Connecticut. An angry man gets out of his convertible and spits on the thief.

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Posted 6:11 PM by Pauly

2003 Part I: Winter & Spring Poems

All poems written by Paul McGuire from Jan. thru April 2003


Friday Poem: Fiesty Cats in April

Fiesty cats, and my itchy nose
Sit on the cracked window sill.
The paint chips, slowly flaking off and
Falling to the hardwood floor.
The small house plant,
Soaking up whatever
Bay Area sun that can
Sneak in between the buildings
And underneath the air defenses
Of the three obnoxious street people.
They sing songs until dawn and
Sip week old warm pissy bottles of cooking sherry,
While they aggressively ask me for $3
Everytime I walk by.
I stare into their eyes
And I laugh because I am only
Carrying hundred dollar bills.


My 3:00 AM Thoughts

The weak knees of the man in the white labcoat
Shook and vibrated like a startled rattlesnake,
Ready to fight any trespasser to
Death in the fierce Texas heat.

The self-loathing scumbag,
Who neatly put those butterflies into
Glass containers for retarded tourists from Botswana,
Fell down off his steel stool
As he nibbled on his lunch:
A soggy tuna salad sandwich,
On stale wheat bread,
With the crusts cut off,
Which he would collect and save all week,
Each day, scooping up the bits of unwanted bread,
And placing them in a brown paper bag.
He would then feed to the birds that
Lived in the large poplar trees that
Populated his rectangular backyard,
Each Sunday morning, like clockwork,
Minutes before he'd drive his
Twin daughters to church.
The oldest one,
By a mere three minutes,
Was singing in the choir,
And he dared not miss a single note of his
Little sugar bear belt out the latest hymns
In the oldest Baptist church in that county.
The younger one would sit in a disturbing
Eerie silence,
Rarely blinking,
Or moving at all until the service was over.
Then she would recite,
Verbatim,
The homily from the Pastor.
She had her own weekly blogspot,
Which she would blog honest,
Ripping,
And cold commentary on the
Pastor's out dated and anti-Semitic rants.


Tuesday Poem: Somedays

Somedays I get so sad,
I could punch large holes into concrete walls.
Other days I get so mad,
I could tears phone books into itty bitty pieces.
Most days I'm so glad,
That I get to dodge the waves of fear and madness,
And body surf their tubes of despair all the way to shore,
Where I smile, and take deep breaths,
And shoot rubber bands at the sky.

But somedays I loose my balance,
I get sucked under the mighty tidal waves,
And find myself drowning in the quicksand.
Where thousands of somber souls
Discover their courage to return to the surface.
Only to be wisked away by the lunar tide.


Thursday Poem: Ode to Roy Hobbs

Robert Redford walked into my dream
Last night.
He calmly sat down
Across from me, and
Cursed at the adjacent table,
Pointing and snarling at the
Three people, whom sat baffled.
I never met them before.
But I took pictures of them,
With a disposable camera
That I stole from
7-11.
He ordered a Scotch and soda,
Then he smoked my last cigarette,
taking it out of my pocket, without
Asking.
Which was odd
Because I don't smoke.
He spoke soft words
And I laughed when the sluggish waiter
Slipped on a mango skin and fell,
Dropping a dozen empty
Plates and pieces of saliva soaked silverware.


Sunday Morning Poem: That's My Chicken

The senators laughed at the
Bearded lady, when she violently sang
An obscure song, only known
To a couple of mead riddled Druids,
And some random kid in Idaho named
Eddie, who downloaded the lyrics onto
His new i-pod, after he snagged
Several porn flicks involving chickens and
Busty blondes.


Friday Poem: Ode to Nothing

I hastily look up at the
Vast cluttered midnight sky
And I stop, to pause and wonder
Why?


Tuesday Night Poem: Fortunate Fool

The lagging silence was broken
By her percise eyes, and the peering
Glances that she shot my
Way across the cluttered table.

I tried to break the rountine, of me
Laughing at bad jokes, and eventually
Choking and spitting up
Vanilla milkshakes out of my nose.
That usually gets a lingering chuckle
From the other customers,
Who saunter by with encouraging
Words and pats on the back.

I snarl at their pandering attempts
To console me.
I silently curse their Mothers
And secretly memorize their home
Telephone numbers, so I can crank
Call them when I am lying awake at 4 AM.

The whining bag lady who stood
On the empty corner in the middle of the
Early afternoon sun shower kept
Pointing up at the sky, to no point
In particular,
Yet a group of Danish tourists
Stood, marveled, took pictures,
Then got their pockets picked by a
Slick midget named Sully.

I shrugged my one good shoulder,
Tipped the waitress a meager 3%,
Then glided out of the unknown diner,
With a whispering soul a few steps
Behind me, planting small, yet
Delicious melodies within my earshot.

I walked down the sidestreet
And smiled when
I saw a young father angelically
Kiss his oldest
Daughter on her forehead
Before she got hit
By a speeding city bus.


Monday Poem: 152 Peaches

To find me sitting
In a well lit room,
Is to find me staring
At the swarthy cracks in the shabby wall.

I saw him working,
In a small pool
Full of blissful frogs and other amphibians
But he did not see me
Lurking in the faint twilight,
When the purples and oranges take
Over the sky, and the other colors
Must patiently sit and watch
Them gleefully dance with each other
Their shadows vibrating off
The sour terrain below, and I stop to whiff
The moist breeze.

The alarmed chimpanzee and the hardy zoo keeper,
Would laugh at me when I
Walked over to them with a
Tiny notebook, and a twelve gauge shotgun.
He demanded I hand over the notebook,
But I let loose two bursts.
The chimp died instantly,
And the damaged lungs
Of the injured zookeeper,
whimpered sorry breaths,
As I chuckled like a bastard on
Prescription uppers, and
Spit thrice on the now
Bloody ground.

The hallow buzz that I
Begrudgingly steal from staring into
Space, is the identical high
A sophomoric junkie accomplishes
After religiously shooting
Up a handful of freshly cooked
Smack.
Bought from the slothful man
With the idle dog whom
Sat in an old flat tire,
Chewed on all sides by
Adorable puppies.

He’s the pimp who sold Fried Peanuts
His daily stash.
Which he made me fetch for him,
As well as a jar of
Apple Jam, and poppyseed bagels
Four times a week,
Sometimes more.

The hassle of all hassles,
Trying to cop for a desperate addict,
Was more than I could handle,
So I quit my job, and pawned it off to
A comedian in training named Marty.
His friends called him Marty Farty
Because of all the fart jokes
He would tell to the crowds who
Dared show up at his Open Mic
Performances in the Niagara Falls
Area as well as all over Eastern Canada.

His savvy talents were no match
For his jealous wife’s twin brother.
Who longed to tell knock-knock jokes
In French, while wearing a
Kiwi colored tu-tu.
His small, yet capricious
Dreams, were hastily pushed aside
By Marty Farty’s comedic rants about
Passing gas in crowded elevators
And stealing bowls of chili from
Soup kitchens in the Detroit area.
Great laughs for sure,
But not when Marty Farty
Was poisoned by an ex-girlfriend,
A dyslexic stewardess employed by Air Jamaica.

Peaches was her name,
So her nametag read.
And she showed me pictures
Of her pet snake named Hamlet,
An albino python that she
Loved like a regular pet
Or a third cousin, a distant
Relative that you saw only
During weddings and every other funeral.

The cheeseburger eating fireman
Walked over to the rental car
That Peaches had just wrecked.
She drove it up onto a
Semi-crowded sidewalk
And wrapped the Geo Metro around
An utility pole, and nearly
Hit an express mail mailbox
And almost flattened a fragile
Collection of rabid raccoons
That gathered to pick through
The daily garbage left out
On the slimy side street by the
Pizza shop owned by Greek porn gurus.
Her intentions weren’t to mow down
A hapless crowd of pedestrians,
But Peaches
Pulled a Lizzie Grubman,
And took a single life.
She killed a man.
A divorced man,
A scum bag lawyer,
But a life nonetheless.
People cried at his wake.
Relatives brought flowers and
Pre-cooked Tupperware meals for
The reluctant party afterwards and
Even his long lost son showed up to
Sing a cheerful song.
He, a flamboyant dancer from
Miami Beach, was secretly living with his
Scrappy life partner nicknamed Scooby,
A sloppy bartender
Hustling in backrooms
Each savory night, and he
Held a job
As a terrible pool cleaner
By day.

The keen Vietnam veterans
That throw multi-colored water balloons at the
Catholic school kids walking home
Each afternoon,
Would pretend that they
Are Charlie.
And each exploding balloon
That wets an up and coming
Hearty Christian, is a twisted
Game of selfishly acting
Out their morbid shell-shocked
Nightmares of endless tours in the dismal jungle
Cracking branches from leaves
The size of small farm animals.
The machete men would
Shout like lunatics to the insects
That landed on their
Muscular tattooed arms.
Sometimes burning them off with Zippo lighters.

The vodka crazed taxi driver showed up
And offered me a ride to the airport
To get me away from the insanity of my
Waking dreams.
I try to catch myself
And talk to the gloomy walls,
Like I used to,
When the harsh days were shorter,
And the lines to the methadone clinic
Were not as crowded
Like they were back in the 1970s.


Sunday Poem: Fried Peanuts and Piss Stains

My bladder was about
To burst all over my pants,
And trickle three day old urine
Onto her father's rare bearskin
Rug, that he bought off of
E-bay for $4,500, not including
Taxes and shipping costs.

I bravely stood, and crossed my
Withered legs, as I winced in mortal pain.
My obscene thoughts drifted back
And forth across the highway median
Dodging erratic college kids
Quickly driving to Spring Break
On South Padre Island, where
The mellow days are long, and the
Sassy nights are longer...
So I'm told,
By a bitter junkie named Fried Peanuts,
The blind ex-veteran, harmonica player,
Who lived next door to my babysitter.


Saturday Poem: Cheese Fries

The anorexic waif ranted
"Where's my cottage cheese?"
As I stuffed a fistful of cheese fries
In my mouth, sideways,
As she clenched both fists
And pounded on the counter,
Attracting pissed off glares and
I laughed with my mouth full,
Only to spit the glob of
Half-chewed food at the shivering
Fool with the aqua-green shawl.



Thursday Poem: Ode to Hans Blix

The small hands of a blind
German girl rang a small bell,
Which she held tightly with her
Fingers grasping the piece of brass
That her grandfather sold to her
On his deathbed.
Was he an ex-Nazi?
That's up for debate,
But she had no idea what facism
Or what other gossip
Would whip up behind her back,
When she skipped to school,
With her small poodle,
Following her down the cobble stone
Road to the last feast of the season.


Wednesday Poem: Porch Song

Sometimes there is a small
Child who sits on my porch
And eats his crusty boogers with
His freshly packed lunch
Made by his somber nanny from Cuba.

Othertimes, there is a medium size dog,
Who shits on my porch,
after trying to bite my mail man's leg,
And that ugly dog howls at odd hours,
Always when I am sleeping.

I tried to throw small, yet heavy
Objects at the tresspassers.
Othertimes, I sit and I listen
To their heartbeats hum,
As I sing my own song.


Monday Morning Poem: Ode to Michael Jackson

MJ dangled a little baby
Named Blanket, out an art deco window
As crazy Germans gleefully looked on
And the world's cameras captured
The jittery gloved freak, freak out.
And we all watched,
With looks of bewilderment
As he took little boys
And little girls to his world
Called "Never Never Land".
Perhaps France and Germany
Should send Hans Blix, and
UN weapons inspectors to MJ's bedroom.


Friday Poem: Ode to Tommy Franks

Forgotten memories of epic snow forts
And little slush balls
That I used to hurl at taxi cabs
Slowly driving throughout
My blanketed neighborhood
After the furious snowstorms
Left too much snow.
Dropping off harried customers
Who lost their snow shoes
They seem to be nice people...
The taxi drivers,
Even the foul smelling ones.
Now I think most of them
Raise money for Al Qaeda
That's why I don't tip very well.


Untitled 2.6.03

Thursday Poem
Underneath the cover
Of a dark gray sky
I can see the faint
Trails of a flock of geese
Flying westward
To a place
I never heard of
But saw once
In an old postcard
Sent to me from a friend
Who still owes me $56.


Wednesday Poem: Ode to Phil Spector

Big fat, soapy rat
Sat in front of the
Little rusty doorway made
By the oily man whom we
Used to make fun of
By throwing large bricks
At his sloppy house, and at
His several small adopted children
As they quickly walked to school
Under the veil of early
Morning Darkness,
As they sing silly songs
Written by dope fiends
During lunchtime binges of
Oxycontin and vodka.


Untitled 1.9.03

Do you ever get that feeling
That you want to disappear into thin air?
No, not kill yourself,
But just activate the powers of invisibility
And just walk off,
Walk out,
Walk away from whatever nonsense has been getting you down,
Whatever infected wounds that flared up
Has gotten you ill,
Whatever demons that you seemed to have
Swept underneath the carpet that have
Since then rallied and gotten stronger
While you were not looking, and
Decided to invade and divide and
Conquer whatever little magical world
You created for yourself.

The little daggers of forgotten and
Repressed painful days that had
Gone away are now incessantly jabbing
Away at my tense arms and heavy legs,
And in my empty gut I feel several
Rusty and large meat cleavers
That are chopping off sections of my intestines.

Although I repelled the verbal attack and
Assault on my person today,
I failed to recognize that the
Words will get deflected and re-butted,
But the hidden messages and
Meaning sneak past the gate keepers, and
The insanity of the biting words and
Hurtful phrases seep deep into my body and
Settle just below the skin,
Right where it could irritate me the most.

Sure I am wrought with enough faults
Tthat could fill several large garbage trucks,
But at least I had the decency to
Properly tie up my shortcomings and
Put them in the proper trash bins.

Days like today are meant to be forgotten.

---

Posted 6:00 PM by Pauly

2002 Poems

All poems written by Paul McGuire


Untitled 10.10.02

My mood is somber,
The air is tense,
The street is jittery.


Untitled 9.13.02

When the rain dogs return home
To the final destination of their month long journey,
Then and only then we will realize
Our true intentions were
Misinterpeted by the local union of
Turnip and cabbage farmers,
Who mistook religious fanaticism for simple lunacy.

The farmers shrug their shoulders in unison,
Light their corn cob pipes and just
Stare out into the fields and rows of
Newly hatched watermelons with somber anticipation.


Ode to Royal

If Jack Sprat ate no fat,
And killed the cat,
And finally smoked a rat...
Then that fat Fuck,
With the bath mat and weathered hat
Could care less if I,
A stoned hack
With a black sack
Of Julio's freshly cooked crack,
Went over to his kitchen with a mini-bus load of
Retired tailors and ate up all of his perishable items,
Like breads and fruits and
Maybe an onion or two.
Fuck that, let's haul ass.
And as Royal Tenanbaum said,
"I'm half Hebrew and the children are 3/4 Mick-Catholic."


Untitled 7.2.02

Ah the little dances that echo through my head
Are nothing compared to the sounds
That bounced off my bedroom walls
As the television reporters took the afternoon
To watch and take notes
For their overweight bosses.


Untitled 6.1.02

He goes,
She blows.
He cries,
She dies.
Kids weep,
Lil sheep
Have sheet.
Red meat,
Hot treat,
Cold feet.
Wet man,
Cold ham.
Jeep green,
Acid mean.
Up there!
Under where?



White January

The winter aroma of burning firewood
Lulls me into a deep trance of January
Dated memories of lots of snow
And a little slush
And those large pieces of rock salt
That stain the sidewalks white



Blind Dogs

I saw a blind lady
On the subway this morning.
She had a seeing eye dog.

She walked into the middle
Of the subway car
And just stood there.

I was sitting in the first seat
Next to the door,
And I stood up and said,
"Pardon me, Ma'am, would you like my seat?"

She turned her head in my direction,
And said, "Thanks,"
And sat down.

Her dog curled up
Around her legs
rRght in front of her
And was quiet the whole subway ride.


Untitled 5.29.02

Ironic bluntonic,
Supersonic colonic,
Stereophonic electronic,
Plate Tectonic,
Catatonic laconic
Chronic hydroponic



Untitled 5.28.02

Abundant gestures of disorganization
Rile the deminodes with uninspired sighs
And the wavering incessant fodder
Of restless, agitated, prudent musicians
Baffle the tamale hording serfs.


Untitled 5.27.02

Harmonious shrieks ejaculated
From fabulous she-males
Stun the gregarious pedestrians
Wiith fistfulls of Euro Dollars.
Humbled by the archaic sayings
Of the Druids, with synthetic layers
Of feral exchanges from nubile co-eds,
The old Germanic soldier
Quietly hums to himself,
Yearning to extinguish
The pernicious dreams
That fester and feed
At the cauldron of his zealous sympathy.


Untitled 5.26.02

Lazy eyes from the crooked cat
Stalked the mundane cloudy images
Of an injured field mouse
In the somewhat dim midnight moon.

Chants and echoes of the fallen apricots
Wrap themslevs in tiny pewter baskets,
As the elderly snicker and sell their medication
To angst ridden suburbian teenagers.