He Hated Wisconsin

He hated Wisconsin before the floods

 came.  The people seemed  mainstream prairie

 grass killers, yippy dippies with pet cows that they eat.

Even the loon found it hard to stay, but 

 when the neighbors came on the news without

their teeth in, worn out from lifting through the

night he got onto his bird and flew to their flooded city

where he wrapped his flab sticks around their

rednecks and give them a hand up and wing to hold.    

Now he’s proud to call Wisconsin

home even though it smells.

 

 

 

someone read em

I like my blog.  I put poems up full of typos

 and once and while

someone reads them, and says so.   

 

I wouldn’t mind if more people read ‘em.

That would be sticky rice.  They could tell me

 my poems suck and what  they reminded them of. 

  I think it would be nice if I could

remind people of things

that they have forgotten

that they really want to remember

like the  keys are under the beach towel 

or you were a cute kid, kid or

fuck your dad, he should’ve been there

or a pillow ass is better than a dead ass

I have to remind myself with frantic cup stacking.

That’s work. Lots of time, I  watch c-span instead.

money money shi money

I want to have a cigarette but I also want coffee

I don’t know which one to go about first.

They must come together, but how can I start

one when I am starting the other

 

 

This is the very meaning of magic.  I wonder

if I can create reality.  If I just think money

money money then  I am told money will come

my way.  There are people who actually believe

that shi’ because it worked for them. 

 

They don’t realize that everybody does that.

We’d all have gold coins in

our toilets if it worked.  

30 feet and risin’ mama

I sure wish other people could live inside

poetry the way I live in a condo. 

That writing a poem would be

the same as building someone a house. 

no matter

how many poems I cough out there will

still be floods on Mississippi River towns

 

poems are not sandbags or the hands

that place them -one on top of another

despite  their similarity.

sometimes a poem is not the answer. 

Sometimes a boat is in order.  

 

Anyone Got A Match

I’ve written so many

dumb poems lately that

I am not sure where

I can burn them.

 

I read a couple poems

to a man at the post office

he said I should put them in a book.

 

 

The problem is I keep writing.  I think

someday I’ll stop, then I will shelf them 

on the walls of the capitol and light

‘em up good