Running Out Of Places To Hide
Now. Three more chalk outlines I really don’t think appropriate to hide Easter Eggs.
That’s it…all of poem 14 for 14 April 2014
Too short to count? Then here’s a few Prose Poems from yesteryears.
Working Both Sides Of The Street
What conjures more Hit-Whore than a Poet? The back-door semaphore of an Amateur Political Tout. Some Beltway bystander ready with last week’s drive-by in full auto-Pontus-pilot pout… with clean hands pickin’ the low-lying hoot and Hee-Haw of how Happy Days would be here again…and we’d all be fast friends…were it not for the poor, rich, young, Jew, Pope, pagan, or bacon cheeseburger.
and those old & anachronistic … salt sugar cigarettes and same sex holy soda water drowning the free market and the flea market of small ideas with a big gulp of Gitmo guilt while too big to sail to safe harbor or Tora Bora and did W stand for wilderness or what the fuck are you blaming all this shit on my guy, says our tribe, and your tribe chants back while “we” bury another Spec 4, High School Sophomore, and a six year old from Sandy Hook, as Westboro Baptist gear up.
Another Prose Poem Goes Quickly South.
Gone dry ink pens and flame free disposable lighters appear to be my personal meme of the day. I’m using meme wrong here, my muse whispers. Well, up her anachronistic attitude and post modem sensibilities, I’m the one with a bevy of books, and beats, and blockbusters bouncing about in the cloud.
The old gal pretends to be hip, but she’s fallen and can’t get up. Note my trip there over base creativity. It’s pitiful. She will have no pity.
Poemin’ is the rented fool.
SHELF LIFE-PROSE POEM
Liquored up and quiet as a lawyered up Saturday night suspect… When some Sunday morning radio reformer is giving witness to the ways of the Devil..including/ the product placement possibilities of a public renunciation of my sins…Damn—
Who is the patron saint of marketing I mutter then made instantly sober with white lighting realization my particular and growing demographic has a never dying interest in the shelf life of simony.
It’s all going so John C. Calhoun. A retrograde swoon. And always a moon of the moment to hang a history. A high tide of whichever side sees it simply as sink or swim, and still wet behind the ears, they reenact, to payback… Sherman’s march to the sea.
to think that argument fresh, fixed, and hitched to a wagon divine.
It’s no never-mind. It’s been done. It’s disciples dust and they hold no proxy on the present.
Prose Poem Pawns Me
We’ve been Inter-coursing around, with why some want to “Lord It Over”, Since Adam’s Rib decided to Pearly White that Golden Delicious.
And Once Treed, We Fear Higher Ground.
Laid low, we whisper up, a local language, riffing in neighborhood punctuation, with the accent on block by block conceits. Making myth, of the original mischief, we make material the first spit shined shibboleth- quick to lose its luster to the tongue wag, the tongue lash, the talk back, to talking down-but never listening- until the blood flows and it all goes… Feudal.
And once again we have to resort to the necessary rewind.
Or, as I have taken to call it—“That Forbidden Fruit Loop.”