I don’t like pink
but my stapler is pink
my stapler is the Buddha
To the mind, appearance
is like that stupid screen saver
with the flying toasters
Marilyn really was the Buddha
you could tell just by
looking at her
Photo credit: I stole it off the Internet. Don’t judge me. Instead, look carefully, deliberately, at your own mind. What do you see?
unfold effortless mandala of
shoe leather, witch-traps, and bliss
they offer it all up
the offering and the offerers
like children playing at death
the theory goes
there’s poetry in everything
perhaps no more palpable
than a fragrance
but undeniably present
it points to its own essence
which, profound in its mute pause
stands on its own, until
the wide earthen plains open
their gaping hungry canyons
and swallow down all the poets
stanza by shrieking stanza,
punctuating this sudden evacuation
with a steamy, satisfied belch
look, here’s the finger bone
of a poet, so this is where
it must have happened
(grim looks are exchanged among
the survivors as they notice
the piercing silence enveloping
the space around them)
the finger bone still
bears its ring, a posy
inscribed in wedding script
around the inside of the band:
“It is astonishing
what it is we think
can be done with words.”
Poets stringing words together
in the intestinal casings of
their pet language.
Sausage makers! Frauds!
The flower’s poem fell
under the croaking lawnmower
of a babbling poet.
I grow tired of
attending your funerals.
How many is it now
but my memory is poor.
my teeth are half gone, though I floss
and my gains are what many call loss
I stammer and stall
when the creditors call
and I pine for some rouler sa bosse
I offered to pay
the fortune teller
from my winnings at
the track, if she
would agree to join me,
and kind of watch my back.
With me, you won’t be able to follow that
weird tradition of spreading the cremation ashes
in the place that the person had loved the most.
Not with me. I didn’t have one of those.
I never went anywhere.
The few places I did visit, I didn’t really like
and was happy enough to leave when the time came.
But I wasn’t all that happy to return
home either. It’s hard to explain.
I guess you would have to dump them
in one of the apartments I had lived in,
but which one I could not tell you.
I didn’t really have a favorite.
They were just apartments.
(This current one is not bad, though
it has bugs and the landlady is insane.)
And really, what a mess that would be:
I don’t want anyone breathing my cremation ashes, so
you would have to vacuum them right back up, and
then I would be mixed up with flakes
of other people’s dead skin. Because house dust
is mostly made up of flakes of dead skin.
(I read that somewhere.)
And so then you would be right back
where you started, with my cremation ashes in a
container, this time a disposable (hint, hint)
vacuum cleaner bag, and you not knowing what to do with them.
Maybe we’ll get lucky and they will never find the body.
And the ants will cart me off, bit by bit.
Like a big joyous feast after the harvest.
Sorry to bring all this up, but one day someone
is going to have to deal with this. One day
I will surely die. Everyone does.
(I read that somewhere.)
we breathe, peer from open eyes
unconsciously adding one to the census
while somewhere, another subtracts
catching interests, dodging worries
but nothing stands still
like pond water at seven
after dawn, or the queen of night
winding down to a calm
motionless sheer curtain
saying eleven, so christened
by noisy, jealous clockworks
in silent hallways
Martin Luther could hardly relax
’til the Church was informed of the facts
with his brow in a frown
he wrote them all down
but the dime store was fresh out of tacks
#TBT – originally written during my limerick phase back in the 1980s. One day, this will be 500 years old as well.