speaking of marijuana

this is most certainly an anti-marijuana
poem. the millennium marijuana march
is scheduled may 6th in major cities
across the u.s., marching for legalization.
nearest here is cleveland.
my son-in-law wants to go,
fire up on courthouse steps.
buncha potheads in cleveland.
d.a. levy will roll in flat cemetary grave
some pothead cleveland poet will unearth
levy's dope poems & read them aloud
under ohio clouds that saturday afternoon
in may. what is it with these dope-smokers
& poetry. they see illusions
what amerika is
& what's with
bearded poets
& cigarettes
& obscenity
& sarcasm
& what about
those doped-up
faggot
poets of the 50's
& their kicks
chicks looking like
cleopatra
stoned
in black sweaters
cool & crazy
but then let us
consider june
cleaver
& wally
& our childhood
our past as memory is,
or will become
or what happens
when indians smoke peace-pipe
annihilation
scalpings
a lot of goddamn
history
hemp
& ruin

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The Poetry Circus Has Come To Town

no little kids running in the street before us
we apply our make-up
don our costumes
rehearse the lines
poets in the front seat
poets in the back
clowns traveling in a very small car
pouring out
to yet
another
poetry reading in a dank coffee house
or a dark bar with brooding drunkards
…and then there's the clientele
armed with pool sticks and beer bottles
did someone just pass a machete
or was that a pitch fork
And we read
over the sound of a brilliant break
many balls dropping in pockets
many balls
we read over the steaming of milk
the washing of dishes
the turning nervous pages of the next poet
the comments under breath
over the old farts at the bar with their hearing aids absent
cause they will get lucky
the feedback from a microphone that I swear
Lou Gehrig used once
one guy is juggling
she is dancing middle-eastern
another uses props
someone yells and shouts poetry
reading for five minutes maybe seven
cheating sometimes
stretching our act to the host's exasperation
departing the stage
edgy and disconnected from what is going on
waiting for response
waiting for approval
a thumbs up
mimed mouthed words "you were good"
waiting for the last poet to descend
we wander out into the street
we talk about the worst and best
under watchful white eyes of stars
we are veterans when we leave
piling into a small car
driving under the cover of night
to a new town
to the next poetry circus

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"Spring Lurching Toward Summer, 2000"

Now the insolent grass
Pierces my winter cheeks;
The holiness of Spring
Enters not with humility
But with swollen glands
Of concuspiscent bud and flower.
Dionysian drunks lurch by
Bearing battered instruments
Of Hosannah ChumpChange.
My stiffened fingers
Uncurl, warmed by your
Lolita breath.
Demeter arises and points
A sprouting finger
Toward the coming solstice sun
Even as my rotted sackcloth skin
Sloughs off.
The snake of me uncoils,
Holding Eve's apple on forked tongue
As life beats
The rhymthm of love begun.

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THE ROMANCE THREAD
(Dedicated to the Fiancee of Mr. Dang)
(Marc Ellis) c 2000

     Have I found the romance thread, at onelist.com?
     I have a note I'd like to post.

I stumbled out of bed in briefs, not boxers;
A mug of three-day old coffee was in the microwave;
It was good once;
It needs warming;
And the careful attentions,
Of a cultivated man;

Check my email;
Oh no!
I don't want to hear from that female!
My ex-wife

             "What now my love?"

I have two appointments this a.m.,
One from Mexico -
One from Vietnam,
Where I must arrange
For the fiancee of Mr. Dang;

            Ding!
            My coffee's ready.

     But let's be brutally honest;
     If we arrive,
     At what Graham Greene called,
     "The Heart of the Matter",
     What are the prospects,
     For the fiancee of Mr. Dang?
     For the universe?

     Suicide?
     Or slow annhialation?
     Pick your poison, mister;

     Don't chicken out, chump;
     You know your health insurance,
     Doesn't cover elective castration;

          So it's Wagner versus Strauss;
          Die Fliedermaus flies
          Into Ace Hardware on his way to work,
          And buys some little Japanese clamps,
          Little concentration camps;

          Have I found the romance thread, at onelist.com?
          I have a note I'd like to post.

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beautiful

stumble blessed astronaut
exiled into convalescent space
ceiling fan swing
nocturnal insect symphony
beautiful

ever thirsty spirit drink
wisdom from the trees
outside the water oak
stands as it did the day before
beautiful

TOP

I know her differently
then you
weve never met
but we have a kinship
a similar heart
(the valves are different but the veins are the same)
all the times you were around we never talked
about anything of consequence

I used to complain
'your really smart,
why won't you ever have intelligent discussions
with me?'

'You intimidate me, you make me nervous...'
this sounded familiar
I have a kind soul
but I keep a persona about me
one that I used to inflict purposefully
upon the outside world
to defend my emotional true-self
from crying at the end of films that have meaning

she went on
'...Im afraid Ill look stupid.'
she believed that
this had come up before
beating her every time we played trivial pursuit didnt help
the poor girl never had a chance
Im not as smart as much as i remember

this upset me and left me looking for stimulation elsewhere
she obviously had nothing to offer me
and now she is gone and I am glad
though I don't get laid
I masturbate every day
Im not looking for a genius
I just want someone who will try

I now keep in the presence of mostly bright eyed minds
and am constantly at philisohphical odds with others
they have their own quirks
but i find myself recharged
and sometimes upset

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summer 1986

4 u i hushed 1000
barking madmen  borrowed small
prayers  summoned hot darkness
4 u i shyly offered the
touch of my warm hand broke
7 kinds of loneliness/
counted every twinkling thing
in the giggling night time sky

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crescendo

sultry waters
cascade down
pulsate my skin
like the beating
of your heart
wash over me
like the warmth
of your breath

my hands habitually
follow the flow of my curves
round of my belly
as if in your
presence

my stance widens
to lingering thoughts of you
on your knees before me

your lips
beckon
at my voluptuous
womanhood
passion's dew rains
upon your tongue
slowly

with lightness of touch
bow across a violin

crescendo
into blazing urgency
you send me over
the edge

filling me
with an afterglow
of delicious
human
flame

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asking for it

the stench of my hatred
was too overpowering
for most
she said
that's
why you get shit on
people are afraid of you

oh
so that's why they come
up to me in the streets and
try and start shit with me?

them's the breaks
she said
when people see your arm
they're either unnerved or
they want to kick your ass
you
wanted it
you
got it

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CORROSION FLORA
for cait collins, haze, goo, and all the fresh
young fellas at THE HOLD

Yes, we didn't. Say, can you see
Your way to passing through the
Arcs and runnels of the cosmic body
Without deriving any moral? Walt
Whitman, heterosexually challenged,
Doesn't think so. Lewis LaCook, homo-
Sexually noncommital, writes: "Yes, we
Didn't. Say, can you see your way
To passing me more money, before the table
Collapses under the serious bounty
Of all this imaginary food?" John
Ashbery, another ragged villanelle, doesn't
Think so. He was busy straightening the
Askew wallpaper in the room he wrote
"A Wave" in. That doesn't qualify me
For earned income credit.

Even if everything's gotten so funny lately?
If "death is no more rank to me than
Copulation is?" I'm serious, now.
You may not be in the mood for the prophetic
Voice. You may find yourself in the bustle

And clatter of the bar
John Ashbery wrote
"The Painter" in, and not
Know it. You may sit alone and
Smile across the gulfs of cosmic
Body that seperate you from that
Beautiful woman over there, who
May indeed be less beautiful in
A different light. Well, so could
You. And you. There's no shame

In being ugly, believe me.
I've seen it all. Once, making it
After days of rhetorical innuendo
With Walt Whitman's randy ghost, I
Almost came to, I think, at least
I felt SOMETHING move behind my eyes.
No, we did. Remember how
All the kids in school used to call you
"Aquarium Head," because in the gilded
Chamber of your cranium you kept
A vicious feline that hissed and
Scratched anyone foolish enough
To get close to my tongue? I use
The scoopable kind. Say, can you see
Your way to passionately embracing me,
To ward off this cold I seem to be
Catching? Most of us would prefer to pitch.
I'll put a gorgeously Post-Language spin
On it. Who WOULDN'T pay good money
To watch Kathy Acker do Emily Dickinson?

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MADONNA OF THE BAD TIMING

after two months
longing and expecting
a warm night under
a green quilt with
someone who gets
sick   she touches
herself all night
and the following
morning   goes
out   eats spaghetti
mid day only to
come back in un
dressed then finds
the white car in
the drive way
just as the bed's
been ripped open
like a gnawed
deer and her hair's
half in the sink
that's when he
wants her to
go out and eat
then wants to
eat her only she's
not so hungry
now tho he was
always the one she
thinks of no matter
whose hands whose
skin is where
she dreams his

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Poemula

that's me over your rooftops
that's me collecting bile
above manhattan
above chicago
above dc
that's me on your bedpost
you only thought you dreamed it
me with my kettle
red black and steaming
with bigtime innercity heat
that's me pouring it into
your rich jealous poemburning
pompous asshole husband's
shell-like ear

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An Unsolved Mystery

Love is
In the bright illumination
Of moonlight glowing strong
She sees tiredness of his eyes
Amidst the excitement of
This day of days that brought
Happiness in a goal sought
~
A quiet dinner along with
Pleasant thoughts of a new
Future one that would be
Shared in their lifetime
His dream comes true
New plans and joys less worry
~
Now they seek the solace
Of their bed and needed rest
And the mystery begins with
A same old familiar line over
And over again as it makes
A beeline for her mind, her heart
~
His poisonous harsh words
Spill toxic waste between
The sheets words heard once
And now again like a dart
Of death aiming to kill off a
Relationship cast like an old shoe
~
In her mind she rewinds and plays
The words not sure if there is
Some untold meaning held in a
Bay of reality in his mind
She always asking inside what
If anything she did in passing
~
This dead end issue whatever
It may be, is there a clue here
Could it be his own insecurities
His wanting complete attention
Newborns cry for the same not
Having the ability to speak words
~
Even the greatest detectives are
Clueless her mind mulls over
With this classic dish of dirt
Sleep eludes her once more
In the morn he rolls over
Saying sorry, I love you.

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3/6/00

Keep stalled here this ocean point of stave off hardened chemistry aligned
So there are forthing lightweight shadows
Pummeling the center feel of little weight
I drive myself this one exaggerated paced astride the latecome
Fortune dry my hands and wait
For steel and substantives to matter once
Again the litmus of what has been living will return
To a reply as savored as the distance between
Raw and coated
Every evidence gives lotion a complete new talkpoint
Every hesitation owns a nearby field
There are encroachments to be briar with and tamed
Until the referenda prime themselves to play through
Witnessing where affectation choices to go
Dorming in the wheelpoint center after centrist
Lark to fare as well as we contain our selving
Sure as sleet can be seen through and through

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I'm sorry
your brother's life
ended
standing on the tracks
beer in hand
walkman top volume
But hey,
sometimes
people can be
just stupid enough
to die from it.

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You Probably Think This Poem is About You

my friends don't understand my poetry
they graciously read
make polite remarks
or say nothing at all

my sister thinks they're pornographic
that I'm promiscuous
worries I'm not having safe sex

I don't bother showing stuff
to my mom
she wouldn't get it
especially the ones about her

this woman at work says
everthing I write is hilarious
even when it's not

then there's this guy
who makes fun of 'em
analyzes each meaning and metaphor
sees himself in every one
embarrassed by the sentimentality
argues with the voice in the poem
and often kills the messenger

this poem is dedicated to him
you know who you are --
arrogant prick!

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I want…..

When I was a kid
in the daze of my youth
my mamma used to ask me
"Whaduh hell do you want boy?"

And back then
I didn't know the words,
or tha feelin' s,
to describe this need
ta reach out to the universe
til one day
I woke up……

I want
to feed you tales
from the roller coaster of life
that rip out your heart
and pluck it's strings
then massage it gently
and let it sing

I want
to write poetry
that grabs you by the balls
and gives them a twist
as you scream and rant
then stroke them gently
and let you cum in your pants

I want
to walk in the rain
naked to the world
with life in my eyes
for all to see
the purity of essence
a soulful being

I want
to make love to you
with soarin' passion
spread it like honey
from head to toe
release the tonguing linguist
and let your juices flow


I want
to breathe in hyacinth's
drunken fragrance
bleed in floral
purplish blue
dance to the hunger
and laugh with you.

I want
to run through the wild
under northern aurora
pastel magnetica
glissando in ice
sweat like the wolves
in Nervanic spice.

I want
to interview God
in all his omnipotence
tease his brain
of all the cheese
then sell it to a tabloid
with pics to please

I want
to "YAAAAAWP" atop Everest
with burning lungs
dive in to the blue
and soar the unknown
spin with spirits
feel the chill to the bone.

I want
to listen to the world
in all it's glory,
hear the whispers of time,
and it's soulful cries,
bask in it's beauty
and sun lit skies.

I want.......

I really don't want a helluva lot……

I want
to leave a mark
for all to see
that last much longer than a footprint
in high tide sands
it's with in my reach
in the grasp of my hand.


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A Matter of Light

I

It's a matter of light, really,
though darkness shines through leaves
and petals open - your hand opens,
full of what you'd give me
if you could. I know what looks
like love but isn't, and this is
not that. Meanwhile,
most of Mesilla Valley sleeps.

II

The birds wake first. Your hand
is a cup filled with gold, tipped sideways.
We lie in a bed of spilled light.

III

I could wake forever in this room
and never look beyond. Read the lines
in my palm, how they led me here.
It's a matter of light, really,
and possibly shadow. It's a matter of love.
But it's a story that doesn't end there.

hear elaine read "concession"@the spoken ho!d
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