mmmmmcxlv

things he thinks of himself
(about which he too often reminds)

rest
assured,
del
is the most
confident
aspirer toward (/opinionated admirer of)
leftist leanings.

mmmmmcxliv

 duck butts at one-eighty

  so, if i say the
  eighties, and then you say, yeah, the
  eighties, around what year, at what precise
  decade, what moment in time, might we be
  lingering as we
  initiate the most searing stare-downs?  oh,
  nevermind, president alfred e
 “gag me with a spoon, man” neuman.

mmmmmcxliii

dim hellmouths skimmed by brief windows of light

loops of daylight spun out, over and
into the bay.  whoever
gains control of the
harbor needs
two thick-thighed legs that stretch
high as the
outlandishly tall steps apiece with a big enough body to
undertake halving the darkness and
securing the peninsula.  as the
ever-darkening intermittent tongues and troughs swallow and spew with escherian wiles.

mmmmmcxlii

showtime

say, what
hue will light
our stage tonight
with
the most dazzling
illumination?  it
matters little.  because
either way, this show’ll floor ’em.

mmmmmcxli

a drowning in the desert

know ye!
every tongue in the sahara
yearns for the same

limy sublimity.  which should not, however, be
inhaled, or taken half hastily, lest a desert’s
mouth become, with death,
empurpled.  oh, these arid parts bring the insatiably lethal thirst for a dollop of key lime!

mmmmmcxl

cooling down a bevy of devils

damnation!
eternally, etc.!
vile demons, too, and their
ill-bred brethren, those who wear red hot
lycra, all the worst of the fiendish
lunks, who gather at trend-diminished parties 

every other fry
day or so. they gather at the lead-slathered bar,

each steamed-raw tongue in anticipation (it’s an egg bar, of course) for the rush of a
gush so mesmerizing the gremlins almost give off a vapor of brotherhood. then,
gulp! down each hot hatch go the shelled mustardy
slivers—today’s hottest slam—like slick sand down each devil’s windpipe.

mmmmmcxxxix

dirty, no twist

pray tell who belongs to this
olive-colored rock?  it’s so pretty, a
lush green.  it looks like
it’s been polished with
snow-capped pine by a mountain-top guru.  i mean, it
has lived.  maybe it lived within the grasp of an
eagle’s claw for a
decade or two,

should eagles generally live
that long?
only to inevitably show up right
next to us as it is here, glued to this birdbath in some
elder caretaker’s long-worked goofy zen-style cocktail garden.

mmmmmcxxxviii

island living

eating
another
salad?
yes, with

peas, no less.  it’s
easy to do here
at bonanza.  see the
steak-house’s lime-lit buffet?  they’ve the same fixins this
year as last year (and perhaps even the year before that).

mmmmmcxxxvii

homework; escape routes

cars pass each other slowly over the
arc of main street to
night.  past the
dewing front
lawn their headlamps seem to
entrance the pair of flames enough that they dance in tandem a moment.  here in the drab
living room that grays eventually into the murky obsidian of night.  but for the flames
identically flicker-floating as they do, unlike the lazy automobiles, they dance.  in the
gloomy room, where four children are lined up along the
hi-fi, extra-long stereo, upon which each child’s elbows rest, in
this room where nothing ever happens except homework and dreaming.  each kid’s pair
     of gleaming eyes honed at that dull arc; behind each lid brains bubble, eager

     to be taken away in whichever direction.

mmmmmcxxxvi

on the other hand

raw silk is memorably slippery
ain’t it?  or
what am i also thinking of . . .

spiderwebs?  or perhaps shucking tall
individual cobs of corn fresh from the summer garden.  absolutely
lush!  to remember how it first felt slipping from your palm is not to
know the illuminating but creepy wriggle of the caterpillar in the other.

mmmmmcxxxv

swimming pool standout (w/french highlights)

first one.
it should be suuuper sloooww.  with tons of tongue,
right?  i mean.  a romantic one.  so
simmer down.
take it easy.  dive feet first into the

kiddie portion of the pool.  don’t sweat.  oh, already wet.  she
is her very own brand of swim.  oop, there she goes, up the 8 ft. pool
side ladder, emerging like lava from the deep end.
she who’ll stand you up at saturday’s camp-end dance.

mmmmmcxxxiv

what shall i convince myself that i am feeling
should i awaken to another morning?

precious
ups of life, the bitter
rivals to their key enemies, those
pitiful
lows...
exclamation point!

must we exhaust the most valuable resources 
of our lives, those
upward movements, positive days filled with what rare hopes we grasp, so
negatively?  is
this most
arithmetical, binary way, this means of measuring a life’s progress...

i mean can it even be done objectively?  maybe not.  but how
nauseating, how horrifying the alternatives.  am i but a

manchild obsessed with pink and purple regality?  we’re told there
are palpably quantifiable extensions to human duration when, no
jest, we
enshroud our various
selves within
the power of positive thinking.
i’ve been a staunch believer in this notion, nearly since my
earliest days.  but look at me now, at such a relatively short distance of time
since setting about to disprove such hopeful science.

mmmmmcxxxiii

opinions given in & around the construction zone

sometimes one must break
a
few rules, right?
exactly!
take, for example, speeding through a
yellow light.

oh, sure, you
run the risk of having
a significantly shorter life taking such risks.  but age is just a
number.  or so the saying
goes, yes?
exercise caution, however, is a also a saying.  and for good reason it is often said.

mmmmmcxxxii

No Frog, He

lounging around up
on a lily pad in
the middle of an evergreen-enshrouded pond, the sin-
ugly son of a frog-kissed dimwit.  and such a
simple prince, our dear Sir Slovenly Spit-Ribbet (or, quite simply, The Toad).

mmmmmcxxxi

I took the one less traveled by
                                                                 —Robert Frost

first poem i ever had to memorize?
robert, as opposed to jack.
or wet and cold as it approaches frozen on, say, blades of grass.  over-
seas journalist of such renown that he was sir david.  what’s the most poetic?
the ice that grows gorgeously from window corners, or when breath hits pane on frigid mornings.

mmmmmcxxx

weighted with water

succulents. what are they?  they have leaves that seem
unapologetically (too much?) weighted down with water.  but then there are
cacti.  i just looked them up – they’re succulents.  either way, i have
cared for a few over the years.  most do not, at first glance, need much
upkeep.  but many seem nothing but a cluster of water-
laden leaves.  i think again...i’ve kept such plants for many years.  or
else i’m imagining the green thumb i supposedly inherited.  have i
not told you that my grandmother, and not in a
tropical climate, but in arkansas, grew a banana plant (that had actual bananas)?

mmmmmcxxix

Sparkle

so what color would you give sparkle?
paint chip poetry gives it
a lemon cream yellow, and that seems fairly
reasonable, but i don’t
know, it seems to me that anything gifted with sparkle might
loathe (because sparkling inanimate objects loathe, right?) definition of any kind.
especially color...but that’d make colors (or sparkling objects) a bit overly opinionated.

mmmmmcxxviii

Mr. McGill of Charleston High School

science teacher extraordinaire, was his first name
charles?  i’m doing a search of my
high school yearbook for the summer i graduated,
only i can’t find anything about him at the moment.  there are
other things he did besides teach physics, biology, algebra and, in my
last year there, advanced algebra and trigonometry, or was it pre-calculus?

but i remember that he was mormon, and was a regular bus driver.  he had an
unusually large family, lived near my grandma and grandpa cross.  he was the
science teacher (from whom i learned physics, biology, algebra and I think an

    advanced pre-calculus class held during the lunch hour my senior year).

mmmmmcxxvii

Isn’t It Tempting?

tempt me with another whirlwind
of colour.
right now, i could say it’s a
necessity to come up with
an easy, efficient way to create a few poignant lyrics.
del is always saying too much.
or not enough.

mmmmmcxxvi

A Few More T-Shirts Seen in Tokyo

Love is War

There’s a monster in my pants.

Daisy’s Paradise

High Minded

I love to kiss

[there were a ton of studded skulls]

Super Rich 90’s

Machine Wash