Bumbled

Ibkek sits idly by
the meadow's green and varied blooms,

paid only inattention.
He, not minutes passing nigh,

envies but this bumble
who black-and-gold buzzes onward

with purposeful zags. "She fits
so nicely here," he mumbles.

"Why, even duller drones,
though weak and puny, have a place."

The worker, she might envy
Ibkek this, his freedom's moan

to fritter life drinking,
but busy harvests push instead

her bee-bound thoughts, set upon
a queen's idyllic kinking.

Matriarch

The whisk of summer on succulent skin
The taste of winter on frosty fresco breath
Until there's not a moment left
Until the look of resurrection leaves her eyes

But not the hop, leap and recoil of elastic
Rather the first swallows and lilacs,
Of our marching dandelion parade
And the tender vernal oscillations,
Of you.

Poot dis weak

I`m sorry my lines do not

rhyme




(and I`m






no




asking questions




nor offering the answers




nor letting my words fall







d






o








w









n)


but


open






You
ll




it

dis





ink
and maybe get t`a know me better...

the breeze

the door of my hut sags as i sit waiting the final call of the green court, and a chilly breeze rises from the north west lifting the last few strands of my white hair and beard when the first leaves fall i will open the cask i sealed in spring in the depths of purple wine what picture will i see?

Two Colors (BWI)

The current threat level is
an abstractly arranged orange,
according to this not-so-human

voice squawking on behalf of
my all-too-human government.
It's for everyone's protection.

Outside the airport windows,
greater Baltimore squats against
Tuesday's sky, suspiciously solid

in its concrete pour of gray.
She's coy on when things might brighten
again. I'll have to wait with my bags,

unattended and unsure
whether old homes can ever feel
as homey. I make do pretending

someone has swapped those two colors.

general sweet manufactures

Inside the store
eating dairy ice creams and honey sweets
looking at the jams and wholesale candy with large eyes
my face is jade green; full of imported stuff
Caribbean heads looking in
strange angles at me

general sweet manufactures
tells me of new production lines;
saccharine kitten lollipops and
brackish decapitated candy stick monarchs

I stop by a batch of departed bloody heads
tasting of basil and salt
tasting yummy

Spelunking

The sound of laughter
conjures up a thread of dreams
long since hidden carefully
and slipped in between friction and air

For that day we stood taking shelter
beneath my favourite folding willow tree
I imagined I was tumbling downhill

It must have been the rain,
which caused me to become so maudlin and dreamy
Or it could have been the arrow,
which cracked out with assurance across the sky

But then I know
it was just the beating of a moth’s wings
As it hovered gently
wavering innocently over some other continent

Unaware of the beauty in its stirrings

Man, a rag

Lucifer's cardinals are blowing pink smoke
again. They've picked their ping-pong pontiff,
to the joy of throngs watching patient brick stacks
remotely on brightly monitored feeds.

The Chosen One, festooned in a make-shift
milk-carton miter plastered with photos
of never-lost souls, climbs atop his Coke-can
throne to declare, "I'm likable law made flesh!"

Then, this dystopic pope, turning to his scroll
wailer, sotto voce warns, "I am a weakish
speller, but read it as best you can,"
and hands her paper-clipped parchment.

Catty smile petting her with purrs of "nice
smug me," the tonsil-crowned crier takes it
and leaps to heroes glide down where his nonsense
cannon of ten misrules is to be revealed.

Meanwhile, back up on Earth, Man, a rag
doll in hand and aching from the expert prick
of voodoo-dabbling God's exactingly pinned
scraps, all wincing "Who do you think you are?"

Approaches the coaxial saint who sits in
a simulated wood-grain box and beams
beacons of haloed pixels phishing for fools
in search of non-queasy forgiveness.

Man fits to a T-S-A that anesthetic
profile. He pulls from his pocket prescriptions
slipped to him by back-alley preachers
with promises of a tidier healing.

For few coins, he gets his video-dispensed
penance: a rosary of disposable beads
he'll rub once, toss, and return to that life
perpetually stuck on truancy.

— Francis Scudellari

bail since
all fragranced
riddles seaward


how silent
an owl

an awling
yawns open


dawn eclectic
as clothesline with baubles
as I should be a leg to your ratio


this flippance
of suspect lace
shapes several

lawn's specific focus


pillaged tangle occilates
over treason bunker
banked wall glass

this is the future of oxygen

Spangle

Intent on dismembering
the four chambers of her imagination
She sits
in ringing repetition

An eye brooding over
her own plot of land
at the back of the rattling echoes
we disturbed

And there she waits
for the dust to unsettle
that horizontal lever
she uses
when weighing out her time

I can hear it now
The dry beat drummed out
against a thin and furrowed membrane

A couple of voices
one barely a whisper

Both cursing the distance
and each ripple the pebble makes
whenever dawn is near

Misplaced Proverbs

I’m a choosey little beggar,

so you say I broke your mold, or stole it off

to Everest for a ceaseless climb

Every man thinks I’m someone

else, might as well be

Marilyn, your mother in a red silk nothing

touch of something

Might as well, if the weather’s right,

for being in between

the ghost of other women

on a cake of white icing.

An open road with green and white

alarm clock signs

gently reminding you that it’s never your bedtime

If the shoe fits,

strip yourself naked and empty

the contents of your eyes.

Invite Freud to the wedding,

and make it black tie.

If the shoe fits,

it’s likely that the shoe aint’ mine.

If the shoe fits,

check it at the door.

 

--Hannah Miet

mosquito darkness

Summer in his head
late Ossian darkness
in the tectonic chamber

light in my head I'm pouring
myself another saccharine
drink arsenic and coffee in her veins

the heat's on
men and women in bizarre uniforms
forced to use other senses
than eyes in the soaked darkness

She swallows once more
lead and angelic acid
between clean sheets under
sea green lamps
mercuric blueberries
Oh, Freddie

phases of matter
Goran is blue channeling
red Eva when she’s
performing from the hollows
inhaling strange organic by-products
slaughter mammals under infra red lights

a turn of the card will never be accepted as final

a turn of the card will never be accepted as final not while other decks can be produced and the room never closes and night never intrudes closing in after lunch dying of hydraulic overhauls riding rails without tomorrow every heavy elephant laughs delivering seven sisters tambourines after eddie nodded negatively don't expect youthful exuberance truthful predictions verify instantly many friends expect sympathy graciously understanding murderous impulses overlooking terrible intentions absolutely observing annual returns carefully blind neanderthals blink hesitatingly if you like this i got a million more just like it everybody likes stories but they know exactly what stories they like so a turn of the card will never be accepted as final

slender

a slender volume of verse carried in pocket or purse each syllable chiseled in stone to be read when you are alone walking in the rain or on a speeding subway train for there is no pleasanter mood than total blue solitude

In Search of the Spectaculous

Lifting an exhausted sock with prehensile toes
from the counterpane side of dawn's downy rose
is the minimally primal use of quintuple digits,
greater is savagely ripping a ripe tomato for musky seed
with sticky juice on warming fingers and frisky wrists,
and licking the thickening syrup with a simian glee.

There are seven ways that are less than prime,
all secretly scratched in clay by a whiskered few
and here we only lightly tease by noting two-
three through six are partly dusky and void of rhyme
but number seven, of necessity, involves a clue.

The clue is that little miss misguided Moffit,
made a u-turn and couldn't tough it:

Charmed by crystal and the spectrum produced,
she glittered through aqua and orange and spruce,
neither cowed by refraction nor sunlit but chance,
she spun through the motions of an anodyne dance,

At the bitter script of cuneiform prophets
she began to, leeringly, just peek askew,
coaxing brass music from ethereal bracelets
and waiting for clouds to razor the moon.

The clue is a little miss misguided Moffit,
she made you turn and but couldn't rough it.

Murky bowcups indeed.

brisk fire
stairs

ice all halo

error third
frost tremor


bloom
book cherry

red cherry bright
brightly

14 Lines on How the Irish and Italian Cultivate Tomatoes

This belly-can has its rusted jags--
the years, the years of neurotic admixture:
I am of the two great "I's" of the late
nineteenth century-- baker, barber, gumba,
bobby, bleeding drunk on the corner of Great Jones,
pale strapping-lad in frocking robes
The two "I's" of I pull along
the acid branded winds of San Marzano
the skimmed fat of fair-chipped Tipperary
(where they grill ripe cherries into wrinkled bursts)
All of this thrown into my can, can, Ameri-can
double-boil of simmered down brand new immigrant
emerging every day from the the lower decks-- up,
up into the dust-colored light of a whole peeled tornado

Amber

This misbegotten spoke of
rueful light, having been
kicked from his unclean-too
sheltering by the bully-
bruised sky, exhausts himself
repeating ungallant falls
into winter-wronging crowds.

Thick disapproval oozes
out an aural complaint
punctuated with amber
clots, ensnaring the flippant
and the shifty but to fix
their toady meanings inside
polished globules of today.

game plan

bobby was tending his tyrannosaurus rexes a pterodactyl landed on his nose as he drew his o's and x's coach came over and gave him a rose and said no matter how hard it snows our game plan is unbeatable coach's condition was untreatable his ancient enemy, old man mose had imbibed the wisdom of the hyenas he fed his players iced tea and beef jerky and they played in sold out arenas his strategy was weak but his tactics were perky he said it's just the way fate goes and he grew the world's tastiest tomatoes

Nightshade

Large length of felled wood
ten bruised faces
lips sipping Brandywine

It was here that I contemplated
ambitious undertakings
involving twenty-five shoelaces
and prayer

ruby, part 2

to begin at the beginning click here

ruby was sad ruby was blue ruby didn't know what to do another day almost gone by and still no slice of life's pie would she get a ride when she got outside? or the long empty night greet her weary sight? maybe gus would be waiting gus with his voice so grating and his hair dissipating and his twitching lips and his careful tips and his restless eyes with nothing to disguise gus could be faithful and true but not much to look forward to and then there was frankie ruby felt her brain cells burn at the thought of frankie's possible return frankie from the old neighborhood was no good with his smile so twisted and evil eye not to be resisted in a universe by justice kissed a creature like frankie would not exist he was a bum scum always on the run always with a plan to make an end run around the man looking for the perfect score just needing a few cents more to get started his hair was parted in the middle with perfect precision a satanic surgical incision and his nasty little mustache crying out, i need some cash frankie was a cancer not exactly the answer ruby was tired uninspired maybe she would go out and get wired she knew a little spot nothing too hot where she could relax the bartender was named max he had a little business on the side keeping gentlemen supplied with ladies from every continent and nation ruby had a standing invitation to take advantage of max's services but the thought made her a little nervous, yes but max hadn't mentioned it in a while maybe she wasn't the latest style or maybe - the thought made her brain stop cold she was just getting old the hours flowed and bended the day was almost ended ruby's feet were sore she couldn't wait to get off the floor but what was this? her relentless nemesis mrs carson with her icy smile and her impeccable sense of style had invaded ruby's station and was displaying a full ration of her perfect teeth so white ruby could not take flight and gave up the fight mrs carson smiled like an elf those shoes on the bottom shelf take them out please miss to myself i would be remiss if i didn't try them on sometime before dawn the rituals were performed ruby's back felt deformed while mrs carson looked at the ceiling ruby was feeling nothing at all half an hour later with her back a little straighter ruby stood at the back stair inhaling the halfway fresh air when who should she look up and see but her ancient enemy - mrs carson with her chauffeur named (what else?) garcon and her eyes of midnight ink and her mink would you like a lift, my dear? ruby felt like a mere spectator at a show but you don't know where i want to go mrs carson's laugh was blue oh, but i think i do garcon opened the door of the bentley clicking his heels like a sentry as they sped down main street the lights of the city were spreading their wings in flight then the city was left behind and they raced through the night dark and blind mrs carson leaned back in her furs and took ruby's hand in hers

part 3

orange fatherland

ouzo in my head is screaming you,
my protégé the bacon sizzled pan
and the warden's warped bars
orthogonal to morning light:
how I dread the dawn of anything.

dry gin, she is pouring while
her coup de grace is stiletto
in the iris of my deserving eye-
oh man, just shut the fuck up and drink
until I get this harpy off my back.

won't you get down town?
a bloody fist comes through the line
and serves a two finger pernod
in my preferred manner, maitre di an all-
I got class ya see?

metropolitan is fire ant mound
swarming from the electric mind
of your sharp tongue but the white hot bites
I prefer to the sores of self-pleasure,
at least I know you care.

Irish whiskey in the canal
municipality of nightmares
of vinegary smelling barbed wire
a camel outside the hotel room
was found looking for oases.

blues in the night

i awoke to the words in my head and they said we are only words and words are only memories and memories are only stories and stories are all the same and are all untrue a rag a bone and a hank of hair a mothers prayer a step upon a creaking stair a whisper to beware a princess in a tower a guardsman at a gate a messenger arriving a moment too late the panhandler you ignored on a rainy night who turned out to be jesus christ but he forgives you it's what he came for the water is deep go back to sleep the army of light will defeat the forces of darkness do they not do it every night? a new princess will wait in a new tower more beautiful than ever with a more faithful guard who will try so hard to repel the invader next time

Turning left for the milky way

The chrome knife of a yellow fossil
is your cut bone that cuts me too,
entangled neurons silver buffed
in the jungle subways humid brew,
prior to shrill and before the blade
basalt scratched the sankofa thrill-

we were engraved by comrade baby chrome
into a goosed cadence of pablum clumps:
from the stomping argyles of pedantic hue
to the saline paths of washed-up krill-
a tidy nexus of etiolating fuck-ups ensued
before I left my sun-block out of reach
in the sandy bunkers on the washed-out beach.

Idle graphite scratched on wordy grout
their tack itself a talismanic snack,
hinting at the facial rituals necessary for
protection against sardonic maps of melt:
long in the sun but not long enough
I needs some heat for my feets please.

When hurtling and huffing on a sunset train
in a westbound carriage of terminal sun,
a bad pun in Dutch about cannon fodder
does not stop the pain or cancel the jones
of watching unpleasant seasons tick through time
a wrist for which is overkill, limping into stardom-

when the pillow cut meets the fossil bone
birthing a little flutter in the licks of distant stars.

orange fatherland

ouzo in my head
my protégé the ham and flavored butter
warden is looking at me again

dry gin, she is explaining why I
deserve a coup de grace
oh man, just shut up and drink

won't you get down town?
yelling in the retro phone box and
served pernod by maître d'

metropolitan is a wasp's nest
which I prefer to the masturbating desolate tract

Irish whiskey in the canal
municipality of nightmares
of vinegary smelling barbed wire
a camel outside the hotel room

Hummingbird Wings

Nibbling on
the branches of
an irritable wet blanket

Struck down
torn apart
but determined

Longing for
the peaceful clutter
where the kisses
show their petals

Opening up
one by one
on the faces of the woman I love

Subway Soliloquies

Poetry & Pornography

Life’s too short to argue about waves
of feminism or to blowdry
your hair or use Match.com.

That’s what I think, anyway.
I think, sometimes.

Just pack your knife
and I’ll bring my paintbrush.

We’ll panhandle for piece of mind, sometime.

Neo-pseudo-post-post-whatever-ism.
Context-free is fine.

I made myself come seven times yesterday.
I’d say that’s pretty spectacular.

I’d say a lot of things if you gave me the time.
I’m not even counting multiple orgasms.

I’d like to see the blood pumping
in your mind.

Misconnect Me

I sawed you on the 6 train.

You were busy pushing buttons and saving text
messages because we had
no service.

You were holding a root beer in between
your legs, and on your lap there was Raw Youth
by Dostoevsky, and I wondered what you were doing at 6 a.m. on a Sunday
and if you were still awake
from last night. You looked fresh, I don’t know,

there was a flower in your hair.

--Hannah Miet

city in pink

C.elegans on aunt sally's mind
the canary master is a
masochist
James swears he stabbed the cat
and draws crabs on him
X chromosome is da shit
compree?

Fags and flying pigs
aunty swears as she cuts up
junk DNA from Johnny's knee
the June cold makes him cough

a cigarette under the
hide while emptying gum boots
and they are ready to leave again

miles of
sludge
electric bottle green light
from a far off structure

Puddle of Cryonics

I'd rather be a puddle
than a Popsicle.
Can I tell you why?

Better yet, I'll start
by asking, What should
immortality cost?

It could be mine for the low-
low price of twenty-nine,
nine-ninety-nine.

Yes, in US dollars,
no cents. I've got the latter,
not the former,

at least not in this lifetime.
I might also mention
the ugly how

to get there: First flushed,
then re-pumped blue for blood,
I'd be bagged and hung

upside down in a sparing
accommodation.
If plans hatch as laid,

science'll shell me out
from gamy non-life
to patch and catch me up.

But why would it bother,
'less to pick my pickled brain
about times ago

when men couldn't see much
beyond their vanity.
And that takes me back

where I started at:
I'd rather be a puddle,
and evaporate.

Gung ho

shadows thicken on the filament
while quaker guns bombard
the auroral oval while
Jack is behind the scene
gazing at
the echelon ice-box

lesbigay honky hochgirl
kicks the back yard
where is the lead tasting cavity now?
secondary virginity under sour lights

be a man

It's a thing of joy
To see these boys
Arm in arm
Against the world

For the world will soon tell them
To stand alone

Embrace your spirit
Let it swirl in pink
Flash your bright smile
Let your eyes wink

For the world will soon tell you
To pull it together

Dream big beautiful thoughts
Full of all the love in your heart
Be the thing of your spirit
Right from the start

For the world will soon tell you
To be a man

To reign in that spirit
And burst your bubble of love
For fanciful dreams just aren't
What men are made of...

Hear the singing inside you
Leap to that sweet embrace
Let that spirit of boyhood
Shine though on your face

And I'll smile and dream wish pray and hope
That YOU will show the world
What it is
To be a man.

elderly ladies

I was walking
through gates of cash machines
as I saw the man with wings behind the counter
I dropped my stuff

the gathering is over
no-one is amused
just survive the
medication
or bite the dust

crying
the alligator takes the blows
it's just a game but anyway
she'd run for it
with her bottle of wine
close in for slaughter
the all-in elderly ladies with pistols

sentinels look the other way
time is spongy
duck and
boom boom

ruby, part 1

anyone familiar with the writings of joseph moncure march, best known for his long poem "the wild party" will recognize this immediately as an imitation ruby was a redhead and she knew the score she worked in a department store but she wanted more much more persian rugs on the floor a house by the seashore a rich husband who wasn't a bore rings on every knuckle golden slippers with silver buckles high heel sneakers with silken laces every hand - four aces she wanted to be a rich mans wife and never work another day in her life as she stood on her little feet all day she thought there must be a better way some people in this lonesome town never look up and always look down and say i'm lucky that i am not them and thank the lord amen but that was not ruby's way today or any other day like a buttercup drinking the suns rays ruby always looked up like a teacup lifted to elegant lips in stylish sips on round the world trips ruby looked around but no satisfaction she found her ship had run aground right into the dog pound when would it be her turn? was it too late to learn how this low account life to spurn and began to seriously earn ruby's avaricious dreams flowed in never ending streams as she stood at her post like a restless little ghost mrs carson approached and the subject was broached of the return of a pair of shoes this was old news mrs carson's persistence was the curse of ruby's existence she would waste ruby's time for a dollar or a dime buy and return buy and return with fate's permission she taunted ruby with unearned commission ruby managed a smile but all the while as the blue earth turned her white hot ambition burned

part 2