Big Jake’s jamoke
is almost bigger than he is,
& it’s smarter, too, or
so goes the standing joke.
& the oft repeated story,
has a tear tattoo
dripping from its eye.
Deloris, his ex-old lady,
says Big Jake’s problem
is that he passes out
at the sight
of a vertical smile
& she’s pissed that he thinks
a French withered...
I strain myself to get a better look,
a good long look at what is promised
to be the view of a life time.
I’m not a star gazer; I gave up my dreams
long ago. I’m a star fucker. All I want now
is to look up someone’s skirt or down someone’s pants.
I’m asked to ignore too much…look the other way.
In fact, I should call my poems empty poems.
“Never-mind poetry,” that’d be a good name.
I’ll write poems about nothing. Poems that say
absolutely nothing but say it well. I’ll write poems
like Rothko’s paintings of voids, great hollow,
pulsating works of art, undulating existential...
In 1984, I went to Germany for the first time. Not knowing much German, I became homesick quite soon and, largely bereft of companionship, settled in with my notebook and resigned myself to composing the following poems.
I have not yet had a poem accepted
by The American Poetry Review,
I came there because nothing was happening
so did everybody else
and this is what transpired...
somewhere in the hard gravel of Exxon
they got away with most of their shit
the cops could never figure you out which one did what
because they had the same name
The fuzz would show up at...