the sunday muse #174

 

in michigan or minnesota

                                i forget which

it’s illegal to serve alcohol to a moose

which may say something about moosekind in general

                (a drunk moose is nothing but cruel)  

or maybe speaks more about life in michigan and or minnesota

 

and maybe it says something about people in a pandemic

the skull numbing finger thumping soul screaming tic-toc of time wasting

isolation in pandemic lockdown

                                                here kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty

 

which could explain all the videos on you-tube of cat mazes

cat tea parties, cat fashion shows, fancy cat wine tastings, cat slings

cat swings and cat catapults

 

                                                which would also explain all the lost pet posters

all over the neighborhood, all those runaways hightailing to a safer space

in the wild, clutches of cats traumatized by pandemic people

scratching out cat refugee camps behind dumpsters of feline freedom

 

and all those guilt-ridden pet-parents washing their hands with anti-

viral hand soap but can’t remove the stain can’t remove the

stain can’t remove the stain can’t get clean and going insane

yes, boredom is a tale told by an idiot

full of sound and fury and furry calicos

one tortured creature begets another tortured creature

                                                                begets another

                                                                                begets another

 

and so on, until

enter deux ex machina

in times of great nothingness and no release

keep your moose on a leash

  

posted for the sunday muse

these are true stories

jalopy dreams · these are true stories

个

 (heads up! listen to the poem up here)

warning! these true stories are based on loose lips, unshaved characters

scripture translated from crop circles, fast food menus

and all the stuff stuck to the bottom of my shoe

 

true story every time i buy new shoes i have to learn to walk again

giggle and gimbal, stumble over curbs, each foot a conjoined stranger

the fun never ends

until it ends

flatfooted again

 

true story i have no use for politicians, but that’s not true

            sometimes i run out of toilet paper

true story i’m not running for mayor of truthtown, i’m not managing

a health food store, i don’t sleep inside a fortune cookie

            true story i see two moons tonight

one in the sky and one in the lake

 and drunk enough to swim for it

 

true story a man and a woman holding hands in a deli

                        pretending they’re not going to devour each other

true story i wrote a dozen emails, all in my head, which has no wi-fi

so you probably didn’t get them

true story i took the last trash bag from the box, and put the box in the bag

true story i only sleep in pictures of beds

 

final warning

all these warnings may be hazardous to the osmosis of spontaneous true story

true story, all these warnings were translated from chinese toaster oven safety labels  

with an industry standard garage sale ouija board

            (caution plug securely or power cord be detached in set

            else crisscross wires fix with fork and feel emergency

call god immediately, also, avoid soft drinks)

 

but let us not be warned

let immortal monkey gods deliver us onto random doorsteps

let us midnight snack a greasy half-burnt sunset last supper of summer

let us creature around in secret vehicles under a suicide of blue sky

let us go all weather, all together

and forget to do our laundry

 

 

2013

posted for open mic night at D'verse

weekly scribbles #83 pay attention

 so, to "choose one object in nature" and focus on it, i chose my grandfather, which may seem odd, but to me my grandfather will always be a  permanent element of nature.

a nebraska man in a nebraska-land

mending his fences

boots and bib overalls

how carefully he wove his rows

turned the earth with his thick fingers

ripe black dirt, the smell of it

the taste of it, all of it

nebraska

 

the wide-rim sky

was his hat, he wore it like a daydream

and the canopy of alfalfa and wheat

rolling in the wind

his winter coat, his face

both sunburnt and frostbitten

 

and i’m not sure which came first

the man or the land

i can’t separate the two

In any of my memories

of nebraska  

is this the creation of his imagination?

or perhaps  

these things image him

he stands among them

as pheasant run between his feet

 

a transcendental wind

blowing the world around

whistle and cymbal                                       

thru the cornstalks and sunflower

waving their feather petals

gold and green

 

posted for poets and storytellers united

chunky gravy --- 2nd draft

jalopy dreams · chunky gravy

ok, so this is draft 2 with audio, i've haven't done spoken word for many years now, 

so i'm still shaking off all the rust, this recording isn't perfect but... oh well, i'll 

keep practicing, it'll come back to me. 

don’t take no lumps

                                out of my gravy, i say

don’t beat no lumps

                                out of my gravy

cause i’ve been craving baked potato

i’ve been craving dirt fruit

put something gritty on my plate

put some soil in my soul

thirty minutes in the oven

                                is eternal

and i’ve been craving rain on hot pavement

trees with thick leaves to hide me from the sun

i’ve been craving playground simplicity

i’ve been craving crystal balls that know it all

                                and never tell

so don’t take those lumps

                                out of my gravy

nope-nope-nope

don’t steal no lumps

                                from my gravy

                                cause i’ve been craving love

the kind that chases me down

put both hands on the back of my neck

                when you kiss me

i’ve been craving moon landings

and endless human compassion

the rehydration of the earth

streets alive, café windows full of people

faces full of smiles, faces full of porkchop

                                (pass the gravy)

i’ve been craving wasting all my time

in old blue cars on dirt roads

a magic stone to skip all the way to the other shore

stevie wonder’s superstition and my cherie amour

                                (pass the gravy)

that lumpy candy

cause i’m craving something chucky, something savory

                something funky

                                it’s not crazy

just means i’m hungry for more

whatever blessing be for me

that desire

                                that earth-fire

put the fleet in my feet

put the hustle in my whistle

                                feed the soil to my soul

and pass the gravy

chunky gravy ---1st draft

don’t take the lumps

                                out of my gravy, i say

don’t beat the lumps

                                out of my gravy

cause i’ve been craving baked potato

i’ve been craving dirt fruit

put something gritty on my plate

put some soil in my soul

thirty minutes in the oven

                                is eternal

and i’ve been craving rain on hot pavement

trees with thick leaves to hide me from the sun

i’ve been craving playground simplicity

i’ve been craving crystal balls that know it all

                                and never tell

so don’t take those lumps

                                out of my gravy

nope-nope-nope

don’t steal no lumps

                                from my gravy

                                cause i’m craving love

the kind that chases me down

so put both hands on the back of my neck

                when you kiss me

i’ve been craving moon landings

and endless human compassion  

the rehydration of the earth

streets alive, café windows full of people

faces full of smiles and mouths full of porkchop

                                (pass the gravy)

i’ve been craving wasting my time

in old blue cars on dirt roads

a magic stone to skip all the way to the other shore

stevie wonder’s superstition and my cherie amour

                                (pass the gravy)

that lumpy candy

cause i’m craving something chucky, something savory

                something funky

                                it’s not crazy

just means i’m hungry for more

or less, whatever blessing be for me

that desire

                                that earth-fire

put the fleet in my feet

put the hustle in my whistle

                                feed the soil to my soul

and pass the gravy

how to fly an airplane into the side of a mountain - 2nd draft

 

step one: do nothing

as the flight attendances take their break in the baggage hold playing dice games

the pilot performs stand-up in first class and the last green olive on earth swims

in his

very dry

mar

tin

i

meanwhile

 

                                the strike-ready snake will not hesitate

the headlights of the tracker-trailer will not blink

                                political pundits scream theater in a crowded fire

                and all the hamsters trade their hamster wheels for happy meals

 

the inflight meal was a can of worms

the inflight movie was a documentary on the opiate effects of inflight movies

meanwhile

all the corporate risk managers travelling to the annual security convention

block the emergency doors wearing parachutes half-eaten from last year’s

                                                                                         plague of miller

        moths 

 

international flights are blessed with 5-cents-worth of peanuts wrapped in 6-cents-worth

of plastic, and zucker brother movie marathons “what’s your clearance clarence?”

“surely you can’t be serious” “i am serious, and don’t call me shirley”

that’s first class stand-up right there

                                                               

meanwhile

all the doctor’s doctor their doctrines of the dying patient’s last rite to righteousness

 

                (righteousness (noun) ((?)) a highly volatile substance manufactured

in the mind, dirty burning no alternative always blowing up in someone’s face)

 

meanwhile

a mountain looms

big

purple

majestic

with big purple arms open wide beckoning, come to daddy

come to gravity, drop your f bombs over denver and set your engines

          on fire

hurry back home

big dumb rock, star-dust recycler, big blue oxygen tank, also a mother

scolding us: if you can’t solve your problems yourself, then i will

                                                                                         solve them

       for you

which is great news for the cockroach who dreams of opposable thumbs

 

step two:

as we make our final approach, please note the “woot-woot” sign

has been turned on

weekly scribblings #76 writing a blank

i wrote this for the writing a blank challenge, but then got distracted by the 4th of july holiday, and then by summer in general. this a was a fun challenge, really enjoyed, sorry i missed the deadline

i draw a blank and put it in a frame

a gilded thing

i make a blanket statement

                and sign my name

 

and like a cockroach in the toilet bowl

i know its beautiful

and the fish in the fish bowl never knows it so good

and like the endless supply of old mattresses

behind rotting old apartment complexes

the way the trashman hauls them away

the way the tenets bring more

we forget how to sleep

                we forget how to pay our rent

i draw a blank

you write a check

 

i draw a blank and a tree springs up

i draw a blank and the lady in a lake floats up with some-kind-of-a-stick

i draw a blank, and it is good and it is right

i draw a blank and a blank draws back

 

nothing surprises no one

or everyone, or anyone

nothing surprises anyone

anymore

history is not a mystery

it’s a rollercoaster

                i’ll draw you a picture

but need to be psychic to see it

need to be drunk

                to buy a ticket

 

i draw a blank, and a critic screams fake

so i draw another

but this time with more thunder

like shooting rubber bands at stars

like seeing angels in parking lot oil stains

a think tank running out of think

a tank with no artillery shells

shooting blanks and blaming that blanketiy-blank-blank

                                                                                   for all of it

like three blackbirds on a tree limb

like playing the shell game on the seashore

i’m speaking only in blanks, i’m throwing blank paint by the bucket

all of it sticking to nothing

i count backwards from infinity, draw a blank and think

everything is going to be ok

and a blank is a blank is a blank

is a blank

by any other name

i draw a blank

and history is a mystery

is a weather report

is a primitive night sport

is a pretty horse

                is a burning bush

i draw a blank

nothing new

i draw a blank

                and so do you

 

posted for the writers pantry at poets and storytellers united

dverse meeting the bar, chant poetry

today take what you need

tomorrow give what you got

 

today we are young

summery and moonful

tomorrow

winter walks alone

 

today a garden

two tree squirrels and a place to chase

tomorrow

a vulture on my shoulder

 

today is a broken time machine

only knows how to now

tomorrow

we overclock are ancient hearts

 

today the pain is real

proof of existence

and we gather together

placebo memorial gazebo

and the birdbath in the middle

the water in the bowl seems somehow blessed

is the same rain that falls everywhere

cup your hands to catch some

and exist  

 

today i drink the world drunk and wild

tomorrow only dust in my cup

 

posted for meeting the bar at Dverse

sunday muse #166

 

when i walk on two legs

i feel nothing

intruder blindfolded

fool of the world  

if i crawl like an ancestor

chest to the ground

feel the earthbeat, make it my own

mother’s love flows in these valleys

swimming in shadows

white sapling and raspberry cover

i am thirsty and to find her

wander the blackjack

follow rockweed paths, follow the clover  

tree moss and columbine

into the cold river

i drink

and sunset explodes the sky

white water catches fire

i see it

feel it

but i trade my language for the soul of a wakan

so i can’t speak it

but for the hair of my neck

and growing glow of my eyes

everything

alive

like mist after rain

stars on frozen snow

bluespruce and sage

the way the redtail lands on a tree limb

and folds his wings

song of the summer reeds  

and the taste of the river

posted for the the sunday muse

illegal trombone serenade

 

artwork "when the moon is fake and your mermaids cry"

copyright ziggy zagmyer

jalopy dreams · Illegal Trombone Serenade

个

(heads up! listen to the poem here)

illegal trombone serenade

artificial heartbeats

television flickering endless shades of blue on walls crawling with artless intent and too

many signals crisscross a confection that reeks of evening news and cheap booze and old

shoes that squeak on streets too real spinning forever-cycles of red-yellow-green-red-yellow-

green-red-yellow-green-red-yellow-green

 

but we won’t know what any of that means

until dogs remember their feet

and

 (here we go again)

                                                the moon

the dream compass

the calendar stone

always the poet’s prisoner

always the lover’s lost butterfly

the lunatic’s faithful equation

(because she is a lightning rod of chaos

and my heart is static cling!)

so up we go

up illegal ropes

                up balloon strings of hope           

                                                up-up-up

over the murky dark misery

over the neighborhood pawnshops

over the angry traffic cones, lonely lamp posts

over the big helzberg diamond billboard

                ring finger pointing to the moon

climb up to the roof of the city and leap

                                reach out and grab that glory-glow

by the toe

but the moon is always fake

a riddle, a clay pigeon, a sleepy dreamer-fever

her big fake face reflected in every apartment window

i try to kiss each one

                on the way down

(all the way down thinking maybe next time try a butterfly net

or a magnet)

 

but dogs remember their feet

and when i sneak away, shameless midnight gut-punched retreat

my shoes squeak

maybe just like

playing trombone 

posted for the open mic at: D'verse