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you too can beat poetry with our new and improved
pentameters they slice they dice they are fully aromatic the
rhythm of our efficient run-on-time quatrains will march
defeated poets right out of your hair don’t worry they were
tired already - rimshot - TURN THAT THING DOWN YOUR
FATHER’S TRYING TO SLEEP
wasp America
slumbered before suburbia vision
like vest-popped uncles after christmas dinner
chevrolet in the drive with dinah
and dad behind the wheel
drives to mancini’s 66 no kicks
on these asphalt arteries
feeding urban organs where
niggers and kikes, dagos and
polkas, bohunks and
dp’s too fresh for their own
epithets
teem from ghettos
backs bent from killing Hitler
they demand to be what’s
changed parade to a down
beat as a self-loathing
queen collects names till
someone let’s slip
the dogs of Birmingham
blasting choirs from under
gods’ steeples
PRAISE JESUS - PRAISE MOHAMED
crazed harmonics careen
sweat slicked streets back
alley finger pop in
smoke dense dens
evidence we inhale the
spoken word cup
java heat
as a poet ruminates the
man this cat can’t spell
footlights over his sweet red tuber
neuf says
gather georges’ wrinkled smiles for a lint reefer sugared with
bug dust then leave verse in the piggly wiggly crisper for cold
meat and bread struggled past a check-out-chick hooked on
lines come morning she’s a round shouldered reminder of thin
cotton print over the swell of life
back on blacktop her
heat still in the palm
a yellow bus coming
BUT NOW
for a limited time only
before the moon and
shelter from the sky
its asphalt elegant
one line
two lanes
good miles ahead
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