Poems

2022-06-27

How Many?

The other day I accrued a crew of henchmen
Straying, unsatisfied, from the Kremlin
They spoke of overthrow of the current order
"How many, do you estimate
—Men with guns—
Would it take to make a vanguard nowadays?"

Dississappointment

Alaskan lumberjacks in
Jackson, Mississippi miss
Sipping sap dripping
From axes.
Instead, in heads
Some terrible smell
Of dissatisfaction.

Uncertainty

I spent the next hour frantically cutting tags and coloring in names, desperate to not be a follower
I thought that the car is a machine of freedom and concurrent oppression
And I'd ask myself questions, like:
"Is it okay to be pretentious if you're aware of it?"
"Is it alright to be a narcissist for an hour a day?"
"Can I even ask so many questions?"
I want to want it for myself, not for a sign—does that make sense?
So I did more drawings on paper lines
Wrote funny phrases, like:
"Everything should be refillable."
"What's your schtick? Distill yourself into a sentence for me."
"I want to be a communist fashion designer living in the Berkshires."
And so I wondered what I really wanted:
Do I want you?
Do I want the truth?
Do I just want to be happy—but where?
Close to here? Or even further seeking occupation?
I'm not sure, but I know I want to be a manifestation of a cultural movement—not a follower
See: I like loud fast music critical of US foreign policy—could I go somewhere with that?

A Confrontation of the Ignorant

Get out of here with your cynicism without construction
You're a proletarian necessity turned fashion accessory
You destroy everything we've worked so hard for
Get out of here with your health without humor
You've made life a game of fortune and fame
I'd play but you'd cheat
Get out of here with your glee without guilt
You're a thoughtless heeder of hedonism
You can't be so happy knowing what's been done
Get out with kisses without knowledge

Overconfident Wikipedian

Vaguely eccentric and lampooned by constant considerations
Like how a punkish homunculus lusts
For modern anthropology in the form of internet forums
That after reading I can't understate my understanding of
Nor suppress the underlying laymen from complaining

2022-05-09

Smart Fires

Together lots of lighters light put-together lot fires.
"'Arson' said the accuser of the arsonist" said the witness, thinking of an asymmetric alibi.
Okay, I'll admit it: I started fires—smart fires at that; the fires that I start weren't just "okay".
They totally burned the badness out of them.
It was worth it.

Tooth Philosophy

I've been caught up in a cycle of consumption
subsumed by favorites to the tune of playwrights,
forcing me to globally apply my tooth philosophy:
as long as I don't have cavities it's fine if they're yellow.

Pair of Old Open Back Banjo Gig Bags (Found on Craigslist, sic)

Just came across this pair of old banjo bags that have been in the store room for years...
take a look at the photos...
not sure what they fit but one is vinyl and the other looks like canvas
(both seem to be for open back banjos)...
bargain priced at only $15 for both...
hopefully these will be useful for someone and help protect an instrument...
willing to swap for older guitar or music magazines...

VIP

Contractual protractor
Mandated playdate
Hickory hellscape
Escaped belated actor
Found out about it
Now won't allow it
It drowned it with it
With it it crowned it
Iconoclast: venerated and floundered
Repatriated, then coronated—betrayed
All hail the actor royal

Do We Need a Law for That?

In the city, the people's will overrides establishment:
Walk despite the amber hand, and
Occupy garden written for built.
Folk intuition can be great and harmful
With hate- and scorn-ful elocution
For gar- and boor-ish art forms.
Won't a plurality get all the power?
Frightfully, that's the purpose of election.
How could a not-real populism progenerate from people?

A Prevalent Attitude

"I'm just a personal fascist:
I like it alright for me
And it would be better
If they liked it.
But not force it
I'm not that
Insane."

Once the Federation Meets Middle America

A technobabble-future Oklahoma burgeons forward:
Cowboys mount robots and march to the beat;
Metal hooves kick back, synchronized—a testament to the progress of the Sooner State.

2022-04-07

Short Anecdote Written While Driving Through Pennsylvania

Towns of mills and mines,
Sleepy cities dot the rolling, wooded hills;
They lose their race with time.

Resistance

Flee to the countryside with me
And join the Maquis fight
Lead their fascist eyes to see
Enforced conformity's not right
Refuse submission nor heil Vichy
And open arms to freedom's sight

Myth No Longer (Another Sequence of Diminishing, Rhyming Couplets)

At least you're cognizant of your senior moments:
A forgotten tooth plucked from youngster's throat-bits,
Still under the pillow; now fairy's gone.
A lullaby sung won't right what's done.
And think how sad must be the child:
In ways anything but mild,
Has been sullied without
Not mercy nor doubt;
The hope annoyed 
And purloined
By a
Fang.

Technology is a War Against Time

Galvanic cell electrifies
Volcanic Hell erupts
Manchuria attacked by Japan
Deliria abstracted by your hand
Crazy, say I
Lazy, says you
Make more, not enough
Take less, need stuff
Milked-out and made models
Built-up and broken bodies
Bawling then surprised
Falling then compliant
Technology is a war against time
Contra-chronology will never triumph

Poems About Poets

Poetry is theft
Said the quoted quoter or
Was it the other

Alternative love
Song sold in the newspaper
Propose with purpose

Pull a Richard Hell
Quit school, move to NYC
Become a poet

Terrified to Introspect

I see you're only slightly sightly
Wouldn't want to look too long
The horror's packed in lorries shipped and towed
Hung in hangers, planes lain in lines
Your worst fear realized: Oppie's a commie
Now tremble before the court and attempt to court me
Justify the dropping to crop the fighting yield

2022-03-22

Looking for the New Beat Generation

Dialectic electricity sparks a plethora of eccentrics
Planned methodic mysteries frolic in fields preventing Moloch's yield
And ruminate on the empty date of gift-giving to lift yourself from hyperbolic notions of decline.

It's with a depressive optimism that these thoughts are exchanged, rhyme, hanged, and climbed
Up to the pinnacle of divinity go the words of a literary visionary, flexing the interlockedness of her documents
Psychedelia found archived in an almost-non-fiction rose-thorn- and prose-adorned chorus.

For there's a forest for us, the sights of which they're unaware and scared
Of jazz songs and neon thongs the made-up neighborhood of Lower Heights is made
Laden with thrash-can-man ashtrays, stepped on, while dancing a bland can-can in private alleyways.

Making peace with your chagrin, dismal bin-picker-uppers have a good day smiling
The disastrous masterpiece smiths a surrounded island
Astounded, I ask, "will you be with me in Rockland?"

Jet

The jet pack slacker
Fills blank jet-black tanks
With jet fuel-cranked tools
He jets across the sky foolishly high
Just nudged my judgment
Not a plane
Not plain
Jet

Daydreaming Escapades

The see-how-it-goes Lowe's construction material
always works best for ad hoc ethereal
building projects you think about at morning forgetting to put milk in your breakfast cereal.

While you take up making it a seriously delirious fear electrifies without shaking
and petrifies without breaking
down like a disappointed kid ridden of clown-nose birthday shows.

"Where did the time go" you ask laughing at epitaphs until it's reciprocated
on airplanes flown by when you're having fun too soon and the pilot's hallucinated
another problem to solve until the wings orderly devolve.

"Oh I remember" as you resolve and say
pouring the two percent into the baked corn flakes saving the day
and in a weird way you're glad since Cheerios make cheery not dreary or bad.

Make Cavendish (And Corresponding Diagram)

Flying banana factory in space
Orbiting 'round at its own pace
Churning out yellow fruit stock
Domineering power bloc
Controlling the supply
Fueling fog sky
Satellite
It hurts
Work

Corresponding Diagram

3-Act Trip

Lazy chair lyrics developed while reclining
Convey mixed spirits about fine dining
Hazy afternoon before night caused frightening
Sunday feet weird and tired get mired running

Trapped, you try to step back to your chair
Suffocated, you fail to inhale the fuming air
Elucidated, you declare dreaming pulling your hair
Finished, you pen the last word returning to your lair

The episode triggered by text haunted
The mind you tried to keep in line with
The focus fried and broken by
The hocus-pocus of itself unshelved

Stealing Guitars

I can't wait for leaves to grow on trees
And for them to die falling off again.
The ground's crush under foot is guiltily great.
I heard smashed plates are loud so stop that sound;
It's interesting artistically but I need pure rhythm now.
Like modal memories who remember in different tones and
Groaned misery happening on dilapidated keys,
The old music pickups pick you up and I say:
"Pick me up; shake me awake,
Then purport haircut but not short.
Where? What? Let's get more."

2022-03-08

Existential Anecdotes

Disparate etymologies separate homophones.
Desperate mythologies progenerate DM-zones.
You flew the belated balloon,
Ruminated, rated, and mused
—Now what is there to do?

Competitive biologists seek unlabeled tree frogs.
Disillusioned ex-linguists speak non-prescribed word-wrongs.
He found what was never before,
Not once asked her why he wanted 
—Now who lies on the floor?

Writhing Reviewer Blues

With a punk-rock-but-not-pop-punk spunk
The objective music critic
Makes up for his taste
With his prose and his wit.
He tries not to sound base
With his pick of hits
Thinking no news are "A"s.
Just make his ears tick
Stroke of luck, not grace
Happened to pen it with BiC.

Objective Order

All of 'em always offered an advice:
Avoid alliteration.

Soliloquy:
"Something's simply serendipitous:
Sliding same-sounding syllables!"

Where to begin:
Why talk boringly?
Wasting tongues bickering which type's better?
—What? Totally benign.

Colloquy:
"Can't you feel the urge to repeat?"
"Correct, yippee! Freeing, this yearning 'tis ripe."

As it stands, all is smooth;
Flowing thoughts, frighteningly thick.
How humorously have hindered we by them!
Grammar grotesquely gambits greatness. Whoa be this!
Moral of the story:
Make often things strangely.

Actual Information Auction

News clues you in on
Show tune goons three years
Old mold in the basement
Hasten it.

Brace pasted on construction
Paper maker of the plant
Green cleaner doesn't shine
Mine it.

Dine behind the dumpster
Truck bucks trash back to
Pile miles high going down
Drown it.

Brown gowns weaved on
Machines leavened with sour
Bread led to toast
Roast it.

Coast mostly downhill around
Easily breezy in your face
Ear pierced with gold
It sold.

East Bay, No Delay

I follow the path straight
I pedal through towns, past gates
Wheels roll me all the way
I'm taken to the final stretch
Where the Providence gets
Divided in two
Like a parted sea
I'm led as an escapee
Wheels roll me all the way
I pedal to the city—if my bike doesn't break
I follow the path straight

Exponential Misdirection

I prepped the night before the night before
The time vagrant vagabonds loaned Bohemian ragtime rags to
Unsung lads say "Rule Britannia", think: cruel Britannia?
I planted seeds that grow the more they grow
When an aggrandizing advertisement defies your self-best-interest.
The more I go the less I get anywhere—get it?
I can't move without moving off-topic—stop it.

A Neologic Poet Wrote It

Ampersandstone unites separate sediments
Handlebartool drives cyclists' screw
Notreasuretrove finds sparkle shimmers
Whateverwhom is silence silky
Dismemberclub invites Sunder Severs
But strangerisk rips van candy out of child's handy hand, man
You need a nonsequiturtestur

Usonian Clothing

Will you sell your drum set in pieces?
It's simple: I just need some cymbals.
Even nimble fingers sew with thimbles, though.
Whoa! I never knew you needed that to make hats.
Mercury's gone berserk, you see,
So every drop counts, fluid ounce.
"Pounce!" goes the cat to the mouse;
If only there were one for louse.
Get dressed, darling, protest: baseball's Spalding.
Lose your hair, hope it's not balding.
Help! I don't want to wear a glove.
Pigeons and doves are the same, love.
Do tennis menace pendants flow in the wind?
Or is that only for the flag thing.
Pledge allegiance every morning—boring.
Touring with the band's not the same as heart-placed hand.
Do you really love it? Or do they just shove it.
Boom! Drum fill.
Don't spill from the bucket on Jack-and-Jill hill.
Boom! Oil drum hit.
March around the ick or you'll get the bad end of the stick.
A yellow brick road, painted with gold, showed
No one to happiness ever,
Because we're still in Kansas.
Can't escape corn-filled ranches.
At least we won't starve,
Though we've got to wear some rather drab garb.

Montpelier Dentist

When talking to high-fructose-born syrup
Maple trees in Vermont blush a jealous green;
Grief strikes them as they see the turning tides.
How come your sugar's sweeter than mine?
Do I deserve it?
To be debased by something so turpid?
Lick the bricks by my roots;
Old-fashioned sucrose won't melt your tooth.

Anagrammatical: A Magna-Art Claim

One host he drone
soothed en on her
née hornet's hood,
so honed thereon.
Shoehorned note
enthrones doe—oh!

Son thee honored
hooted nor sheen
the horse on-node.
Three shoe don on
shed here to noon.
No others heed on.

Oh no! Sheered ton
neon-horde ethos.
Do the non-heroes
so need the honor?
—Or he not heeds no
sheeted rho on no
one throne he sod.

—Then Eden or shoo!
Honest hero done
none soothed her.
Need shoehorn to
do no nether shoe?
—Or he doth seen no
one horned theos?

Oh, ne'er do honest
horde net no shoe.
Heros need not—oh?
Theor' done shone
no horn do seethe.
Hoo! Señor, the end.

Theodore Henson

2022-02-15

Pax Americana

What's past can't change, can it?
The winner wins the right to write.
They set the writ to teach what's taught.
Come, sit, listen to the pedagogy.
Never any demagoguery; autodidact's evil.
Vines of vile grip the books compiled.
A historical dictatorial makes and breaks time.
Lime tastes sour and so does past salt.
"Halt!" The soldier screamed across the hall.
Fame's lame said they, now look.
Buy the new edition every year.
I know, it's much too much to justify each tear.
Sé, demasiado, peel back the ugly avocado.
Denim jeans thieves churn butter cream.
Cowboy, how boy, do you do it?—Move it?
Millions run up and down town allies.
Pallies, ally? Gal, shall I? Man, damn it!
Apples break grim secrets; quietly cry it.
It's silent, wouldn't you say?
Decir, ir, or stop? Fear makes the cleaner mop.

Grope the luxury on your stroll.
Think of the bugs you see headed for the hole.
Bowl, no water, don't tread on her.
March the fine line, not astray.
Think of all the games we win this way.
Don't think, just play 'til the
Time stop,
Ball drop,
Brain rot.
New year? Who cares? Go until the special pen.
It judges jewels not finely carved.
Writes "Diamond?—That's hard."
Name tags stickered on the surface.
Pen writes the wrongs long undone for fun.
Purpose: grimace, learn this, menace.
A no-frills quill bills you obsolete.
How does it feel, freak?
A dejected projector gestates your lecture.
Heard this, you learned pig?
Wear a wig, looks better.

The goal's reached, stopwatch at two o'clock.
Glock cocked, unblock it. 
Bigger war, bigger world, you heard?
Read the history on thee; Pax Americana.
Beam the thoughts into the rind of your melon mind.
Cantaloupe or Honeydew? Either way I'll get through.
In you I see a body for freely turning.
Work the machine until the crank breaks, and
Believe you're forced to bet your stake, yearning
Is a commercial pilot:
"I wish just once to fly over that next island."
Do the math, flight path won't allow it.
No gas to pass too far, you'll blast.
Smithereens, pieces unseen, no one's looking.
You're a crook in my book, read it here.
Robbers get no attention, Hood.
Run back to the woods across the brook.
They need you there if you're not square.
Beware the dogs but remember this:
Peace waits for hogs so please be brisk.

Why Would You Want to Live in the Dust?

A floor plan knows no one,
For it plots where feet go.
Doors open/close to hallways marching to and fro.
Some tiles up against the wall,
Build buildings three by three.
They never make anything/everything for free.
An architect draws her line,
Diagonal, angled as the pines' pear.
Freestanding structures jump/fall into the air.

The Desert is a place I've been,
Rather drab and full of sand.
Armies mold/place bricks by hand.
A few towns left me wondering:
Giza, Las Vegas, Dubai.
Why/how do/don't they even/ever try?
An ancient, religious, far-gone gambling desire,
Old oil's money hire people to make them.
Big ones store business/agitprop, a fake gem.
Once thought of as a parking lot,
They're going to need parking, lots.
Since 'twas accidentally a city,
And it doesn't look very pretty.

Your Culmination

Velvet Roosevelt invents tents for your backyard.
Sequoiahood waits for no man on land.
Post-war dream makes cities gleam of
Not talling, sprawling—Don't like it?
Pout or shout, but Ford's motorcar yearns for hairpin turns.
Bike lanes steal real estate from Main Street.
Gas makes poor motorcar go;
Only a Devil could shove it.

Who are you to build here?
"Stand clear of the closing doors, please, and leave."
It's cornucopic in the New Cornwall tropics.
Something-something like
"The grass is always greener on the other side of my picket fence."
And yet, it still demands me whence.
New Amsterdam, Old York,
"Two peas in a pod; two tines on one fork."

Washington tells Bethesda to make it smell
Like bombs dropped by
Everyday Johns on Lebanon.
—Or somewhere like that. What did you expect?
My geography's like "My Cat from Hell".
Does that go good, fuzz?
Of course it does;
Reality TV's the realest thing
Until The Next Big Thing, TM.

Terse complaints come from saints singing by hand:
"The echo of a distant time comes willowing across the sand"
—Oh wait, wrong song, guess I forgot to hit record.
Never neglect to take out your camera;
Be always ready, case one slips the gourd.

"Urban planning's the worst thing since that quarterback I hate."
—Picture-snap—
Who are you, Jack?
Why won't you answer, fool?
What, do you really think you're not a tool?
You're in the box, in the shed;
Think of the great teleology brought on by mainstream homogeneity.
Lead the path others thought impossible yesterday but
Is now written in your silent style guide that only today you see.
"Just Do It."