A Poem for John Kerry

US Secretary of State takes a break from Iran talks to get his bike fixed

Tinkering away in the shop,
A Tuesday like any other,
Rainy and cold, but spring’s on the way.
Idly daydreaming of John Kerry
Between tightening spokes and sprockets
American SoS
Stately, if not majestic.
Negotiations tough you bet
Centers himself by cycling
In the hills
Outside your shop
But something’s wrong
He speaks fluently
Your language
Isn’t real
Until the security sweep
And the cameras go silent
But by then derailleur’s fixed
And he’s gone
Conquering hills

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Days like today

Days like today
Need a sun hat
And I got a sun hat
Keep it with me
Had it for years
Since before
I’m a poet
And a good one
But not good enough
Can’t finish that line

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The Wilderness Might be an Island

I dig the concept of the spiritual wilderness that I’ve begun exploring.

The Wilderness has been referred to as desolation, and loss, and a parallel world system. It’s night. It’s a void. It’s the abode of the poet monk.

The Wilderness is a place that’s traveled through, or to. It seems to be lifeless, or dying. Is that the Wilderness: weakening, dying? Either weakening or dying or searching, there’s always something inging.

I dig the concept of Wilderness. Of loosing. Of crying desolation a void

A void exploded within me long ago, if I were romantic I’d say from my heart. But I’m more pragmatic than that, what exploded was the very fabric of reality, of space time, a collapse back into unbeing, nothingness, hopeless abandoned babe in the Wilderness struggling against the primal forces that govern existence. New born innocence in a corrupted laboratory, the experiment improperly powered down.

Gripping the shredded fabric that was once a heart and soul and ember. It was love love the strongest wiped clean in an instance of madness abrupt uncertain screaming accepting no sacrifice below the greatest sacrifice.

The Wilderness sprung from there, from that. It’s an interesting place to be, this dead zone. But maybe not dead so much as alien, there’s life here. Wolves and bobcats and on one road glowing eyes of green and yellow whiz by the headlights of a poet monk searching and seeking or running, discovering. There’s life, but vacant of kind, vacant of lot or clan. There’s enough rabbits to keep you entertained but vacant of people or person really, just the one.

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RIP Sucker a poem for the wretched

Mark?
Oh, he’s dead now,
Not much worth knowing
If you ask me
And I know all what that
Entails, suggests, reveals,
Means dead
Not much worth knowing
Or having
Ever having
Ever having had

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Extinction

I dunno
Maybe I’ve forgotten
How to write poems
Just as I’ve forgotten
How to breath
And how to dance
How to talk
Maybe these are
Repertoire skills
A trinity of blessings
If you’ll forgive the math

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Daydream No. 1

When death finally comes
I’ll greet it like old friends
Kisses on the cheeks
Hugs
Cuddles
My word it will be glorious
The peace
The rest
The rest

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I need help I shout into the wilderness

Also, I’m a poet, I sez
Because it’s true
And because it’s the most creditability
I can muster these days
Poet, that’s the only thing you really need to know
About me, it’s true, and gives you a stalking path
If you wants to track me down
Look for the poet
Boo, here I am here I goes

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Chinaberry how could I not think of you

A little squirrel
chews a chinaberry twig
chinaberry in snow
and you’d make fun of my spelling
but I’m proud to have gotten it right this time
the chinaberry shakes and bobs
the twig is dropped and squirrel
finds another, and oh that’s funny
you’ll read all kinds
of things into this
when the truth is
it’s a squirrel in the snow
and chinaberries everywhere

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Hat Tip

Image from Imgur, I can't find the original source. Hit me if you find it.

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Hunting and Pecking

Where is the music coming from?
Somewhere in workspace 2 window 1
On an infinitely scrolling page
Somewhere in workspace 2 window 1
On an infinitely scrolling page
Is music playing
Is music playing
Is music playing
Somewhere in workspace 2 window 1
On an infinitely scrolling page

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“Fuck Her To Perfection”

Maybe this is good advice,
Maybe it’s the worst,
I’m not qualified to say.
Best I can advise
Is to play with your dog
Love your children
And write your poems.


In spring 2004…I conceived of a plan to write a series of stories with the same titles as famous sf shorts…

The poem whose title I appropriated

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