Obviously post
ed before the game was ov
er and my things changed.
BCS
I’m watching the game.
Auburn stomps Florida in-
to a muddy hole.
I Wish I’d Said
I don’t deserve
to be the framing device
the X marking your spot
on the stage for your
monologue
and since “to reply
is to supply”
you can write your own poem from here.
Found line sestina: Spam Comments II
Another line sestina:
Psychologists most likely accumulate the details
our store have many kinds of fashion goods for you to choose!
This is a message to the webmaster
I couldn’t refrain from commenting
You’ve performed a formidable task
our entire neighborhood will probably be thankful to you
our entire neighborhood will probably be thankful to you
Psychologists most likely accumulate the details
You’ve performed a formidable task
our store have many kinds of fashion goods for you to choose!
I couldn’t refrain from commenting
This is a message to the webmaster
The Opposite of Procrastination*
GIDdy people preaching
a gospel of leisure earned
by keeping caught up
tending to the big rocks first
as if the sand doesn’t wear me down
knock me over
drown me.
*why yes, I did use that line in yesterday’s post. Thanks for noticing!
The Dream of the Strange Tradition
I’m on a skyscraper floor
(town I live in only has one 20-story building)
attending to one of my consistent dream themes
I have to pee
looking around the corner of the huge men’s room
the row of stalls is dark I find the light
A man is hanging by the neck in one of them
the logistics of setting up a noose
from an acoustical tile ceiling
are outside the scope of this dream
I am trying to scream
(ever notice in dreams you can never
quite do anything?)
Unoriginal
This is my father’s world.
Jesus freaks on the road
to the county fair.
Only a dim recollection
of them in a median
as we hurry by.
My parents younger
than I am now.
They’re too old to understand hippies.
I’m too young.
Polyester suits at the hymn-singing
counter-protest to modernity
or at least whatever version
that hates the war and big band music.
On the Anniversary of Coltrane’s Death
First a self-referential shout-out:
John, I wish I could tell you I understand
what happened when you played
either spiritually or technically
I know just enough to see the promised land
but may not enter.
The Dream of Tartness
Often after a trauma
there is the mundane revery
if I could only
mine was a dream of an unbearable tartness
in a drink of volcanic coldness
I sipped metallic hospital crushed ice water
tried not to vomit up the simplest of soups
normally there is the gift of not desiring
the smell of nausea clings to things
that can’t be kept down but
I conjured up something like limeade
as a nuclear bomb is something like a firecracker
while the tubes of lukewarm glucose, morphine
and hot piss kept me alive.
written in response to a dVerse prompt
Conductors and Composers
My worst experience had to be in high school playing Duke of Earl on the flute at football games, I’ll never get those precious hours back. Why do conductors and composers torture musicians? Were they inspired to become parasites and see if another family would claim them as their own?
– Anna Montgomery
We like it better when the composer is dead.
– The wag that sits third row in every second violin section in every orchestra, ever.
For A.M.
Conductors extrovert their will on the wanna-be.
Composers sit alone, some scheme in mind
some puzzle without the parts
until those pieces forge themselves on the framework
of theory problems that arose along the way.
poetrytech 