perturbation theory or monkey in the middle

the monkey dances
through your yard
into neighboring yards
and out beyond
into a blip jiggle
along uneven paths
cobble stones potholes
fell trees and bones

RIP Sucker a poem for the wretched

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


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

Daydream No. 1

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

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

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

Tour Guide

Once upon a time in a desolate land
In the middle of a
Familiar worldsystem
You’d recognize it
It’s right over there

Stood a tree.

Under the tree sat a poet.
It was the last tree and the last poet.
Fitting they should die together

Thought the poet.
Fitting, thought the tree,
But useless.
No more useless than
Love thought the poet.
And the tree dropped a leaf.

We shall die,
We shall die together
We shall die,
We shall die together

And they did.
The tree lost its branches
and the poet decomposed.


They’re still there
A dead testament to waste
And desolation
For whoever should wander by

The commentator shakes
Its head and says
What I mean to say

Once upon a time
In a desolate land
The last poet
And the last tree
Sacrificed themselves
So that you may

Stare in despair and regret
What you have done


Look at what you have wrought
Look at what you wrought.



Episode Link | Archive Item | YouTube

It’s a Hoot


My twenty-fifth podcast is a poem.
(It's much less repetitive than the last one.)

Main Content

Good evening
and welcome
I’m Franklyn Monk
I hold deep-seated and derisive political ideologies
It’s true!
I’m an ally
But I see no sense in preaching to the choir
I see no sense in preaching to the choir
So I’m gonna talk on somethin’
Or prosaic
Like sunsets
The moon
An owl

Oh, the Moon isn’t her real name
Her real name to too beautiful
Too beautiful too beautiful
Her real name would burn your ears
Or my tongue
Turn you into a zombie
Albeit a good one
That doesn’t eat people
So it continually eats itself
Sunrise to sunset
Sunset to sunset
There’s an owl there

Oh, I have a first conscience memory of an owl
But it’s too painful to revisit
So it’s left as an exercise
For the audience
What is the poet’s owl?

Episode Link | Archive Item | YouTube


You came to being
In a burst of white noise
But it’ll be forty years
Before you have the words
To remember how
Form solidified from formless
In a cascade of nervous impulses
Learning to integrate in an instant
And in the next there were things
And a before
The world formed
Around you
Instantly and whole
With past and sudden future

Because Fuck It

I spit something out
Wonder what it is
And get back to writing
It could be my crumbling teeth,
Or ants, another bee,
Spiders perhaps.
Dirt, could be dirt,
or grounds or leaves.
My mouth feels brown and murky
No telling what’s coming next
What will slither or ooze out
Slip or spit out
But it’ll be dark
And pungent
And hidden.