credo quia absurdum

so my last poem ended in a very negative place, so i need to bring balance back to my universe. this is an old poem that perhaps answers the question "is humanity worth saving?" from jalopy dreams of a mothership... credo quia absurdum

(the hoax)

so these scientists these crazy what’s wrong with you scientists

put an ancient vase on a record player, applied a laser

and some super science, digital scanners, noise filters and

crossed fingers

(f.m. – frequency modulation – funky magic)

set up wine glasses and crockpots with little cocktail weenies

and held the world’s greatest strangest séance

 

they made sculpture giggle

 

                imagine their surprise

six-thousand-year-old young girls laughing so loud they leave grooves

                not gods

not wizards, just girls, children of clay, born of flesh, translated to breath

expelled from happy lips and pressed back into clay on a potter’s wheel

i want to believe

because it’s so absurd

because i want to know laughter is eternal

             in the fossils and footprints of my ancestors

in the homemade toys i slingshot into the future

                i want to believe in that grace

and i want to dance with the shy blond girl

                in the white dress, in the frieze of life

                feet splashing

in a garden of green paint, laughter thick as plaster

            and spin her till her dress falls off

and i should rescue this princess bohkara

reclaim it from this cold thrift store

                too precious to leave on the floor

listen close and hear mothers teaching daughters eternal knots

this will be my blanket, and i will sleep and dream

                in the footprints of elephants

and i can stare hours and hours

                into vinny’s whirling stars, big wind fist

                punching the moon

my eyes go all rapid cycle dream-optic oscillation

all those brushstrokes screaming blueblueblueblueblueblue!

i want to live in a museum

                                                i want to lick all the art

i want to eat their hearts

                convinced they’re made of cinnamon rolls and raspberry jelly

                porkchops and cheesecake

                and the psychic breathmint of eucharist

and i want someone to drink this poem, taste my fever

                my tire fire, my words wide open leaping into

                                                                frequency modulation

 

imagine

space and time never forgetting a single note of music, every echo

                                                                                                endless

ocean in a seashell

 

highway in a hubcap

 

                giggling girls

                                in a cookie jar

                                                                imagine

somewhere in a distant future, deep in the long-gone of mankind

                travelers from a more flexible universe

bubble-headed paleoacousticologists on safari

                some crazy what’s wrong with you alien race

                finding our remains

finding this world a dead relic, a lazarus bowl, soul jar bursting with ghosts

point a record player needle at this mess of human milieu and discover

                the human voice:

 

rose is a rose is a rose is a rose

 

and e pluribus unum

 

and today is a good day to die

and i’ll have a blue, blue-blue-blue-blue christmas

and mr watson come here

and this puke stinks like beer

and the poets lie too much

 

and frog leaps – sound of – splashing

and i want to fuck you like an animal

 

and a pocket full of poems, ashes, ashes, we all write poems

(and remember, this is just a hoax)

 

and everything was beautiful

 

nothing hurt 

2011

"the frieze of life" by edvard munch

"princess bohkara" photo by unknown

"starry night" by vincent van gogh 

posted for d'verse

big deal (2nd draft)

get myself all worked up

bang my head against the world

no big deal

 

i need a soda

so go down to the store and buy a soda

need a beach house

so go to the beach and buy a house

no big deal

 

i see your future, i see your gravity

i see your eyes your face your smile your blood

and bones and flesh and all your molecules crushed into a tiny

neuron, baby, you’re gonna be a star!

no big deal

 

all the scientist’s make a fist and pound the ground

a pack of lips proclaiming apocalypse

can’t solve the equation without piles and piles of remainders

no big deal

 

and i’d rather be a lover than a fighter

to love the love and fight the fight

but fight for love and love the fight for the love of the fight

and i’d rather be a fighter than a lover

either way, i get rolled to the gutter

no big deal

 

and when it gets to be too much, cause it’s always too much

much too much, i pull this ripcord and watch the world fall

away, wave goodbye 

no great-big-goddamn-deal

 

and it’s a race to save the human race 

case by case and collectively altogether

and we see how these human beings treat each other

and all the other others, the bird race and the lizard race

and the modest little mouse race

i think about saving this inhuman race and

i don’t think it’s a good idea

 

god looks down, and he doesn’t smile and he doesn’t frown

god looks down like its no big deal, he can always make another

this universe recycles itself and dirt is cheap

god looks down as the prayers go up, everybody pulling ripcords

and god isn’t here and he isn’t there and he isn’t everywhere

if he’s anywhere, it’s a beach house and he just sits around drinking soda

lifts his soda can and makes a toast – go save yourselves!

 

except

he doesn’t use the word

save  

anymore 

i love modest mouse, one of my all-time favorite bands, and love this song:

posted for the sunday muse

the sunday muse #185

the drunk asshole next door just started throwing furniture, which means it’s nine-thirty-ish and i need to brush my teeth and get to bed, i don’t wear a watch, which makes the drunk asshole next door somewhat useful

now he’s throwing bottles against the wall which means i need to leave my shoes by the door, make tomorrow’s lunch and wash some dishes, It must be nine-forty-three now cause he’s screaming out the window, spitting his nastiness, but it’s in spanish, so it sounds like the most heartbroken thing no human being should ever have to sing

which reminds me, as it does every night around nine-forty-nine, i need to buy a guitar, not any stick with strings, but a pawnshop guitar, something once beloved and then throw away (something that sings and screams and cries in a way no human being could ever comprehend

but always feel, and then wail-away the night with my drunk-ass neighbor) we must be closing in on ten-o-clock cause the cops are pounding on his door, and the only mystery is will they haul him to the drunk tank or can he talk his way out of it, i find my earplugs and crawl into bed, look at my alarm, it says eleven

and i’m confused

then remember i forgot

to adjust for daylight saving, good thing the drunk asshole next door keeps a tight schedule 

posted for the sunday muse

road trip

jalopy dreams · Road Trip

 

we can travel together

                kick back in the lap of a classic chevy ragtop

                engine block roaring bold existence

                soaring down huckleberry highways

                the eyes of god spinning

                and every loose strand of your ponytail

                painting the desert blonde

 

we’ll hunt down all the blind spots

                eyes too wide to have corners, we’ll make up names

                for the stuff maps leave behind, trash-heap landmarks

                lost truckstop civilizations, the grand madness of utah

 

we’ll decorate the dashboard like noah’s ark

                with your collection of plastic pez dispensers

                mickey mouse and donald duck and whatever

                that frog-looking thing is suppose to be

                i’ll laugh at your cheap toys, you’ll make fun of my ugly hat

 

we can bum rush a million sideroads

                or linger too long in time traveling roadside restaurants

                jukebox juiced, shuffling dozens of yesterdays

                eat hotdogs and watermelon in a winnemucca parking lot

                pour bottled water over a broken radiator

                in arizona heat waves

 

you can make a map

                of cloud formations, i’ll navigate the radio

                we can kill the static with philosophical gibberish

                or sing along with hillbilly fiddles

                scratching out lazy love songs

 

we’ll take shelter

                in each other, and motel showers too small for two

                take epic naps and ruin most of our clothes

                in a piece of crap laundromat

 

we can witness the heartbeats of alien cities

                i’ll admit I’m lost, and you can lead me

                thru santa fe streets, explore the festival of summer

                mingle in the heat of human nature, make totem poles

                out of strangers, drink the local wine and tell true-ish tales

                of exodus and diaspora

 

we’ll pose like stay dogs

                in tourist trap photographs, you all ragdoll beautiful

        me in my ugly hat

 

we’ll merge in and out of uhaul caravans

                in grapes of wrath formation

                across the four dimensions of america

                black and white and asphalt gray

                and you can crash in the backseat, paint your toenails

                whatever color you want

 

we can vanish into blue mountains

                the way all good expeditions do

                a gospel of impulse

                nothing but myth

                and a trail of sunflower seeds    

 

 

2009

posted for the world premier of the spectacular "friday writings" at poets and storytellers united

kill the phonies!

 

kill the phonies!

 

that’s the plan my man, but first

i’ve got chores to do

i’ve got tornados in my eyes

i’ve got chainsaws to juggle

and there’s rent pay

i need to teach my shoes to levitate

before streets get too real

i’ve got to find some ice for my head

the tires on my car grow old and slow, and oh no

                                                                                i hear reggae

down the street from hermman’s hidaway

front door thumping

barefoot bass player, dreadlocks spinning

girls in black tank tops with white bra-straps showing

shoulders arms legs gliding flowing floating in liquid sound

(splash)

 

no, i said kill the phonies!

 

sounds like fun but

i’m not the warrior i used to be

(and when i say warrior i mean teenage punkrock debutante   

                and when i say fun i mean thunder-jumping

                heart pumping dumb-luck buttercup juggling chainsaws  

and when i say splash

                it’s time to dance)

and then you say “kill the phonies”

and then i say sure, and if i kill them all

you want the big stuffed bear

or more arcade tokens?

 

kill!

the!

phonies!

 

well alrighty then my angry young phony-exploding friend

let’s print up all our favorite fugazi song lyrics  

dress up like middle finger america

hit all the shopping mall bookstores

shove our literary timebombs into every copy of

get-rich-lose-weight-find-god-learn-to-play-tambourine-for-dummies

                you can fold yours like political pamphlets

                i’ll fold mine like paper airplanes

we’ll spin a revolution!

                counter revolution!

                                counter-counter revolution!

or not, i don’t know, i got to get to the grocery store

they got skinless boneless chicken breast on sale

and hold up there chachi, i hear mariachi

(splash)

 

please kill the phonies?

 

relax little brother i’m just messing with you

now let’s go kill some phonies

(and when i say kill

i mean eat

and when i say phonies

i mean grilled cheese sandwiches)

 

 

 posted for poetics at dverse                                                                                    

muddy feet

 

its all one big puddle

in the middle of my mind

heartbreaking state of things

breathtaking stage of things

strange plan or plague of things

city skyline where the wet moon perches in night churches 

and the rain preaches

pulsating puddle of city creatures

run and flee fast flowing streets

no dry hats

pure puddle of deconstruction, where the fat clouds gather together

gangs of gray donkeys stomping down the moon

gray curtains, gray windows, pounding gray drip-drop rhythms

deep fuzzy puzzle of puddle

dry-hump trash-dump downpour city of dirt angel refugees, i pray you a puddle

all night i sing you a puddle song

o pig, o hog

o swine

ham sandwich divine

square root of all puddles

nose deep blowing bubbles

you are buddha beautiful

i sink

i swoon

i drink

i bloom

i think we might float bloated corpse to the moon

o sweet marinating meat of my bacon heartstrings, let us play puddle games

bring all the rain in the world, ocean my puddle

give it the broth and boil of cities and trains

people and their breathtaking heartbreaking things

slick shimmering rainbows of wet motor oil

give it little licks of headlight and streetlamp

and concrete glitter

i jump

muddy feet and mud-pumping heart

i jump

all my water-weight, all my membranes bursting

unearthing

jump right to the pork soda in the middle

explode into a holy splash

 

 

 

 

posted for poets and storyteller united writer's pantry

the coffinsmith

 

matthews international

casket division

 

that’s what the sign says on the building across the street

and while it creeps me out completely

i wonder if they’re hiring?

 

what experience is required, do i need to be certified? ordained?

amish?

 

and what do you call someone who crafts these beautiful little haunted houses?

coffinsmith? coffinista? journeyman casketeer?

dead grandmother gift wrapper?  

i’ll need a business card

 

other job openings in my area: nuclear waste taste tester, substitute backup pickle

briner, deep sea firefighter, bubblegum food color lab tech

            interim office-temp hiring manager (but it’s just a day gig, you know

until someone publishes my pop-up book of cartoon philosophy)

 

as coffinsmith, i’ll make good money with great benefits

            401k with employer match, paid vacation

social stratification and employee discount

instead of smoke breaks i’ll pound nails in my own personal project coffin

fourteen square foot subterranean death aquarium, mini bar

surround sound, and a launch button, just for giggles

 

more employment options i should consider:

love monkey

disaster junkie, used car salesman stunt double

best supporting actor in a superficial techno-colored administrative role

semi-pro miniature golf sports radio commercial break announcer

            (and now a word from our sponsor: matthews international    

 

casket division) and i wonder what the other divisions manufacture

lawn chairs? christmas ornaments?   baby cribs? 

            when i retire, the company will throw a nice party

all my favorite people, all my favorite snack crackers

            i’ll drink until i can’t stand, then lay down in my coffin

coworkers will carry me down to the river and cheer

“he worked himself to death! all hail the coffinsmith!”

 

or i could end all this nonsense right now

            park the car in the river, between two buffalo peaks 

            nothing but a loin cloth and a slingshot

run gorilla-knuckled into the wild

 

i wonder what my high school guidance counselor might think of that

i wonder what junior-grade tax collectors might think of that

i wonder what executive marketing department senior survey supervisors

                                                                                    might think about that

 

who cares, let them make their own coffins

atlas shrugged

so ponos sleeps in

 

 

posted for open link night at d'verse

 

bowl of soup

hey rosemary, i promised you an issa tribute poem, so here we go... 

first, the rice goes into the soup

then the fish

carrots, mushrooms, leeks

the poet stirs it with a stick

 

and the song that he sings, wordless and off key, goes into the soup

and the smoke of the fire, bits of drifting ash

whatever the wind brings along

                remnants of rain

grains of earth and herb from a thousand plowed fields

 

mountains crumble in the poet’s mind

become loose boulders rolling

become round and smooth and wise

some grind down to dust and wait for the next mountain to rise

                some travel the valley

seventeen perfect pebbles roll within reach

go into the soup

 

the last drops of saki and a thread from his shirt, into the soup

 

he adds the vanishing memory of youth

all the leftover laughter of summer festival

                                        drunk friends

all the footsteps that stumble

                dew drops

                                nightingales

                                                lonely cricket

into the soup and stirred with a stick

 

the spirits of scarecrow and firefly, into the soup

the stars and the moon above, tangled in the gravity of soup  

crash into the soup

 

soup becomes universe

alive

 

the poet sits, symmetrical in silence

(night - highway - fire - soup)

 

he holds the bowl with both hands and takes little sips

                                               the soup is hot

 

 

 

 

“clear view

in the soup kettle…

the milky way”

kobayashi issa (priest “cup-of-tea” of haiku temple)

posted for poets and storyteller united writer's pantry

the sunday muse #179

 

in thru the back door

out thru the front door

grab cookies from the counter

as we go

in thru the back door

out thru the front door

this is how we play

at jeffreys’ house

 

under summer leaves

under cottonwood trees

lizards and lady bugs

in thru the back door

out thru the front door

grab some cookies as we go

 

grandmother gets ready for church

grandfather rides the porch swing

melanie wears a pretty dress

i wear a clip-on bowtie

in thru the back door

out thru the front

race around the house laughing

summer all day long

 

all these years

boarded up windows

peeling paint and creaking boards

in thru the back door

out thru the front

good to know ghosts still play

in jeffrey’s house

posted for the sunday muse

this one just fell out of the sky

 this poem was a gift from the gods, it just fell out of the sky and landed in my hand.  an ice cream truck stopped in front of my building and i recorded it thru the window, and standing there, i saw what i saw. love it when it works out like that.

jalopy dreams · ice cream truck poem

so i hear the ice cream truck coming

                outside my window

so i go to the window and look outside and see the sky is clear

                a midday blue, And the trees all have That

midsummer green about them and i think

                                                                that is fantastic

and the truck pulls up and children are waiting

and the music is playing and spare change is falling everywhere

and ice cream cones are melting everywhere

                and i think that is fantastic

and i’ve got ten dollars, somewhere, and shoes, and wait

wait right there, that’s the crazy chicken-leg lady

and her dog

and Her boxes and her bags and she’s got crazy all tangled up in her hair

 

 she’s walking right in front of us with those two crazy chicken-legs

                                                that is fantastic

 

so lets take inventory

one window, one ice cream truck, one ice cream truck vender song

we got all that

and she’s in daisy dukes and pink tee, two boxes on her left shoulder

three bags under her right arm, her car keys jingle, and she has a bell

a jingle bell on her keychain that rings everywhere she goes

                                                                                                and that is

fan-

tastic

 

she yells at her dog, who wanders around on his own,

no leash

“hey! get over here!”

and then she steps in something and it swishes

 

she wobbles, nearly topples over

hopping on one foot she looks at her flip-flop

                                                and it’s dog shit

all those boxes and bags balancing on one crazy chicken-leg trying not to topple over

                into dog shit, i tell you it’s fantastic

                                                 

and one of the kids says “hey crazy chicken-leg lady, clean up after your dog”

 

she growls and mumbles and barks

like she’s got tourettes and just smoked meth

she shakes her foot trys to kick the shit off her flip-flop

                leaning tower of boxes bags crazy lady legs flapping shitty flip-fops falling off

                                                                                and her bell just keeps ringing

                                dingalingalingaling! dingalingalingaling! dingalingalingaling!

and that is fantastic!

 

oh i laughed so hard, i laughed so hard

 

i laughed so hard i had to write a poem to celebrate it

                then went down

                                                and got some ice cream

 

posted at poets and storytellers united