anti-poem

formulas
when spontaneous error is beauty
truth excruciatingly momentary
most consciousness being lapse
clouds ridiculous natural patterns of vapor
& nobody cares
words are
written
so they bite
so they bleed
better latenight tv
in bed pressed against
ann & her warmth
oh how alone you are now
untouched

never trust a poet
unless you are that
poet's lover

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some days it's all you can do

you burn hard for three days
tv is your source of light
tells you about what
is going on beyond
the tight blinds
and silent telephone

dishes in the sink sing for attention
as insects clean them
it's been a while
food is a painful memory
in the gut

resumes went on monday
black and white references
sunday classifieds tuesday
was the one decent suit
two interviews then back
to the box to wait by the phone
damned silence friday
without meaning
exhausted from boredom booze
and seventy-two hour insomnia
you crash into blue hazy light
tormented dreams at the old job

sneaky voices like the ones in your head
remind you of the waiting period
for buying a gun and your lunch break
if you still had a lunch break
would be best spent filing an application

sheets sweat as you wake
up like a gun shot sudden
for a moment you think
of how there should be
prison bars from the wrong side
but it is the prison of unemployment
blue tv light the volume kept low
saturday and you read

into the horoscope
that this is "the week"
it turns around you
take another bite
of twinkie dunked in coffee
you think about cleaning
dishes but hell
there's always tomorrow

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A Hummingbird Dies In Flight
(Dedicated to the Fiancee of Mr. Dang)
©Marc Ellis

A hummingbird dies in flight,
At least, that's what I assumed,
About the one I almost stepped on,
By my office today, at noon;

Frosty glossed
Green feathers,
Iridescent,
Flourescent,
Sheen;


Black yo-yo eyes
Gaze in wonder,
At some flower,
I've not yet seen;

How could this ever happen,
To such a splendid bird?
Plumage so resplendent,
Purpose so absurd;

To share a world
With the less worthy,
This poet of the air,
And yet still drink
The breath of flowers,
And find God's sweetest nectar there;

Laid low on a busy sidewalk,
This Avian Li Po;
His wings just stopped,
While flying, maybe,
That's the only way to go;

It's not so bad then;
Nature always gets it right;
We spend our lives on pavement,
But a hummingbird dies in flight.

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close behind

the dry wine tastes like a memory
without tears and poetry
long nights and bitter soliloquies
cannot see to find me now

one last soft hook in me
bound to drag me down

slow burn quenched by the tired eyes
giving up the ache within
hard tears to bind vacant promises
fall on dry and doubtful ground

drink to nothing nowhere
the trigger's got me now

one more to kill me
one more to breath

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I try to be cutting edge
I try to be alert
I try not to be paranoid
I cant help being kind
I can be cruel
I can be indifferent
cross me and I can hurt you bad
smoking weed and writing
playing video games and wasting my time
theres nothing wrong to enjoy
theres nothing wrong to be functional
we have a right to be queer
and communist
and erect
these things were handed to us by Jesus himself
when he died on the cross at valley forge
Hitler crucified him
for writing the magna carte
its just some sort of history

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threads of veracity

the lakeshore
is sparse today

I walk alone

twigs and scorned paper
twist among webs of dried
sea kelp

miles of time and space
pacify memories
the ocean bay we last explored

Sculptures
dilated driftwood
bowed in prayer to the edge of tides
framing those picturesque stills
you so intimately captured

cool march winds
graze my skin
as I trace the echo of sole creases
in wet sand

mallard wails of order
strum this misty blueness

again
and again
they playfully take flight
glide to drizzled landings
teamed in unison
for the season

my mind lends itself
to the intricate shape
of air between us

seduction
of your soft probing eyes
delicate braille of your touch

your words

threads of veracity
hung on the hem of my mind

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Fade Out

When I am defeated in love
         as now
and growing increasingly
surly about it, my friends
take me aside, whisper wise
counsel to me, tell me what's
next, and I find myself
speaking to
myself
out loud
longing for her to hear,
I head for the park,
look at the stars,
Master Orion in full
splendor, put leaves
in my pockets, pick
pennies from the ground,
ask bag women for advice,
come home for a drink of
Jack Daniels, or perhaps
two, wait for sunrise to
appear and feel the
coldest hour in my
bones. Love fades,
sister, and tomorrow
it will reappear on
the sweaty face of a
man on the "A" train,
reading his paper
wistfully.

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CORROSION FLORA
from NINE POPPIES

Happy as shattered glass, seen in circles crossing
Against herself, smooth and patient as time's emptying
Motion, the fragment of moon caught in the gas of
Her hair has stolen heads and jets, a wash that
Deflates belladonna, caustic as the scorch of her
Passing. You scrawl gurgles of world into the open
Jar, Mindful of the birds, their solemn cries and
Lethal lunges. Here there is no history. When
Flame bends, again, to snuff head out, again; light's
broken.

*

Light's broken. So am I, studded with august's
Ice, licking sap from wounds with blue lips.
You draw the strings tighter to close the bag;
Nothing will fall from it save my identity, my
Backwater golem all smeared with incisions:
Her surgery mistake, gawking at the whole. Such
Proclamations deafen the belladonna, which lists
Back and forth, wavering, ordinal. This cordial
Weeping in its glass through the heat of the day
Tastes like memory collapsing to music. She floats
there.

7/30-8/1/98
506 South Lincoln, Kent

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GUILT

whatever shivers
and breaks like
the most delicate
blown glass rose,
no two the same,
spun thin as spider web
something pulled
from what there
didn't seem to
be that much of
You're awed
catch breath
that escapes
At that moment
leaves and flowers
collapse    a quiver
of crystal    air
haunts you o
even icicles
cracking make
you feel it's
you

from my book: Reading Lips

current event
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My finest hour

In college in the 70s
I managed a skinflick -
we booked German softcore
through a distributor in Denver.
It was cheap but came with
fantastic one-sheets
half the people driving by
would slow down
horns would honk
outside the Cinema 18,
cops would come
make us duct tape up
the good parts
then come inside
stay for the feature.

My favorite was
The Abducted Bride
the star was a dwarf
who smuggled heroin
inside teddybears -
used it to maintain his
harem of teenage concubines -
ran around yelling
my teddybears!
my teddybears!

The owner, Barry Goldberg
wasn't sure you could put
"abducted" in the newspaper
what with censorship and all
so he changed the title to
"The Stolen Bride"
without telling us.
At least he knew what
abducted meant, though
I guess he thought it meant
more than it did.

First time up on the screen,
Artie the projectionist
started yelling for me to come see...
I got up there just before
the title scrolled off the screen
"The Sinful Dwarf."
We lit one up
blew the smoke out through the
lamphouse ventilator
and watched the thing -
it was hilarious.

Suzie at the snack bar
pounded and pounded
on the door to the booth -
"lots of them want
their money back..."
Me and Artie shouted down
"No refunds!"
"No refunds!"
and lit up
another one.

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Evolution of a Woman

Love is
By the age of six or seven
We know
The power rests not
In our hands
It is a male thing
We are conditioned
By then
To the reality
That for the most part
Our destiny lies
Not with ourselves
But those we pursue

At fifteen or sixteen years
We talk
Among ourselves and
Generally
Believe that sex sounds
Pretty Disgusting
Even though we
Feel stirrings of need
At this point
In life
It all seems like
Submission
In lieu of power

Henceforth usually
A union forms
For many an enslavement
Of sorts
Careers put on hold
For the sake of children
Domestic service
Sometimes leads to
Domestic violence
Love and sex
Can be
The end all
The be all of our existence.

Along comes middle age
We discover
So much about
Ourselves
Wanting the love
Wanting the power
Is now secondary
Knowing who we are
Who we have become
Is first priority
The need to submit
Is replaced with
The need to rebel
Then the finality
It comes to us
Offering now
Freedom
To be who we are
To be true to ourselves
To finally accept
Our just dessert and
Love.

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segis

and then the hard to starve
who would investig- not so poorly young
feel Dover on parole and gad knowfully thus
stomach as the iffing where-with
all of your intelgraphy
then I would more than plump
the onerosity some sore known project fee
so numb is are the calgaries
then I would wish for you
few earnest slivers of and awe
then darling pulse if not for me

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"Nerd." A Sonnet.

Like a strange glass pigeon, he comes to me
presenting me with gifts of absurdity
and when he gyrates frantically
I'll know that I'm in love.
Pocket-protector, glasses and curly hair...
Fresh and frosty, his skin is fair.
he purchases nachos and gladly will share
after offering me a spork.
Computer programmer's bloodshot eyes...
I'd obtain for him some strange bow ties..
Small, skinny and creepy; the strangest of guys-
Perfection is a nerd.
So a nerdy fellow I must find
with wit enough to match my mind.

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Ronin

you prefer me
to think of you as plain
verging on butt ugly
and some days I listen to you whine
the boredom of cooking for one
eating alone in your black robe
you come starved to the table
unable to bring yourself to feast
at the banquet
set before you
preferring to eat
a bowl of warm jello

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Gourmet Poet

I am
a Gourmet Poet
raised from humble beginnin's.....

Where you cleaned your plate
of all you were able
and anything else
went to the dog under the table

Where sausage and biscuits
smothered in gravy started your day
and pickin' vegetables for dinner
was the way that you paid.

where Granny and Mom
shucked corn and snapped peas
and made meals of "Suthun Comfort"
that put your mind and hunger at ease.

I am
a Gourmet Poet
raised from humble beginnin's. . .

Where life is measured
by the seasons and the weather,
the direction a crow flies,
and sometimes a barber strap leather

Through the years my Granny
was the most humble of us all
with her faith and perspective,
common sense and where withal

She even had a knack
to try and quote the Bard,
"You always eat the beans
grown in your own backyard"

These little bits of wisdom
always came at a good time
and Granny also had the talent
to throw you a funny line.

"You never talk about
your neighbors pasture one bit,
lessen your back 40 is clear
of all the cow shit!"

So you see

I am a Gourmet Poet
raised from humble beginnin's

and I've grown older
with my culinary imagination
but the wisdom of my Granny
carries on in this generation.

When the shit hits the fan
and the restaurant is jammin'
I reach back for Granny
before the action gets to slammin'

"Before you come a rantin'
and a screamin' and a bitchin'
If ya can't stand the heat,
get the fuck outa the kitchen!"

and ya know
She taught me that there is much more to cookin'.
It is a proverbial art.
Didn't your mommas ever tell you girls,
"you go through a man's stomach to get to his heart"

and men
you think an orgasm
is the only way to make a women scream
just listen to them cum
over Raspberry Chocolate Mousse
with Fragelico Cream!

So you see. . . .

I truly am a Gourmet Poet
raised from humble beginnin's
and I'll leave you with one more tidbit
from my Granny's spinnin's

You probably herd this from your Granny
unless you were playin' deaf,
"You should never ever trust the cookin'
from a skinny Chef!"


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Wraith

I

He watches me as I brush my hair,
bent over so it floats when I straighten
back up: haunted eyes, mirror-luminous
and vague, in a white face.

He watches me and I move through smoke,
believing myself to be smoke.
Who is to argue with me?
Who would bother?
Though he watches me as I slide
my stockings off, first one side,
then the other, legs slender
and substantial as haze.

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