Friday, December 31, 2010

has anybody even looked over this armistice?

in between you and now
and the bully with his sow
is the old dream again
like an egg under its hen

senators congressmen
feed the mall
freeze up the yogurt
or pockmark the stalls

in between you and now
and the bully with his sow
is the old dream for rent

...or if we watch the market and our wallets we could maybe someday buy?

Sunday, December 12, 2010

you don't really
want anything
except to know
you could have it if you did

i showed you something from the sea
foam on your lip reminded me

what was that again
on the off-chance
i might have to remember

Friday, December 3, 2010

pragmatic, blue-collared green poem

//this is a space i've made onscreen to push apart the garish scenes that smart my eyes
(eye my smarts)

everything that is for free would fall upon you naturally
but ask the racehorse for just one quote oh how much sir to sew my oats

disregard in whose regard you'd rise in turn with this canard: it will find you broke and sour
like the sexed up horse per hour

....please inform the maitre'd
                  i'm coming back
                          for his               apostrophe//

Thursday, December 2, 2010

we were waist deep in the deep waste, searching for madrigal's shotput. he had broken some records in the early seventies, rekindled the habit recently, and was clumsier than ever. we poked through bits and chards of vinyl for the dark black heavy ball.

madrigal recanted a poem while the hard jagged plastic gnawed and scraped at our heels:

The verse I'd nurse to help us through
Would not but make the pain sting worse.
It failed us when we should have hailed
A miracle to lift the curse.

and that's how madrigal came to stick with prose for a good, long while.

Monday, November 29, 2010

madrigal sampson was wearing on me, and yet hadn't worn any clothing at all in over half a century. in fact, i was relatively free in that sense as well, having lost most of my wardrobe priming the dam. we were now mostly milling about an oaken tree fourteen miles to the south, like japanese day traders admiring stunning spheres of cantaloupe. except we were trading dates, not cantaloupe, and even madrigal couldn't feign enthusiasm for these transactions anymore. it was clear that we had picked the wrong line of work, and, without fail, the absolute worst dates.

madrigal could infuriate me with a childlike simplicity that was too complicated even for children. he had learned all of the wrong lessons from the zen riddles that had driven us terrified from the balkans in the late nineties. it was thursday; we'd finally gotten a decent haul to hawk. but madrigal would open the negotiations with a transparent effort to disorient and then rob the few customers who fell far enough through the overweening canopy and down into the oily gully to notice our fraying canvas sign duct-taped to the endlessly flowing lava.

'it's funny they call it a bottleneck dolphin,' madrigal would declaim, arching an eyebrow into the sky, 'because since the new lanes were opened traffic's been clear through the gills.'

perhaps this might have worked, but despite the poor english of the patrons, they knew the term to be bottlenose dolphin, and also that dolphins were mammals, sans gills. more confounding than anything was the choice of subject matter for the riddle: in this region, the mysteries of freeway traffic had been blamed on dolphins for milennia. but madrigal couldn't help sideways sanctimonies with the stuff of myth.