various trippy little verses
February 11, 2006

these are mostly poems i wrote in the '60s and early '70s. i've edited some of them according to my current tastes.

putting all of these together has been like a "lucid dream," when you become conscious, during a dream, that you are dreaming and are then, up to a point, able to control the dream narrative. i had such a dream once where i flipped a car onto its roof because the driver had cut me off while i was trying to cross the street.

back in the '70s i put a fair effort in trying to get these and other poems published. one was supposedly accepted, but i never actually saw it in print. last night i realized, "hey, i've got a web site, i can publish these myself!" that's the lucid dream analogy. so i went through a pile of stuff and picked out a few that i thought people might enjoy reading.

writing all in lower case is one of my favorite affectations. it's trite by now, sure. e.e. cummings did this almost a century ago. people still think its kinda cool, and a few editors have a sincere hatred for this style. so it goes. enjoy!
 
 

- * -

 

street song


a fugue of broken
unrelated parts echos
through my empty space.
 
you are stoned
and the stone is broken.
you are smashed --
the fragments are pulverized.
you are grained --
i assault you with photons.
 
it was on McDougal Street
that the colors of your leg
reverberated
in
my cortical music.
 
- * -

 

almost sleeping


she walks
attracting the attention of the dust or snow.
 
an arm reaches out of gravel
stoning the orderly room.
 
a rhinocerous breaks wind in the bowling alley.
the bats have come to little silver.
 
the air watches,
embarassed by her smile.
 
- * -

 

moment


who never sees
inside
will never be outside
the small, brilliant pain,
the perfume of real fingernails.
 
- * -

 

breakfast


i am not this
uncunniculated irridescent
physical bullshit
not body or mind
or table, or tray,
or hot coffee.
 
in the intensity of looking at it
i command silence
and white tubes
cast unreality down
to bodies or cups --
ash trays of my vaccuum,
cusp of mess line.
 
i am not food.
my cerebral attitude
is that this muffin
is not the tunnels of my dream
of knowing nothing,
crumbs of nothing
on the brown tray.
 
- * -

 

psalm


my cup runs
all over the place.
my soup runs over.
my car runs over.
my rent runs over.
 
your image
runs over my lawn
and fades
under the maple tree.
 
- * -

 

trip


not far,
my hand,
not far
 
i
reach drifting air
i open
i
look again - - -
 
her legs are bright flourescent dyes,
the pupils of her eyes
as big as dimes.
she trips into the labyrinth and flies.
 
- * -

 

plate poem


everything is olive, drab, mundane --
what can he do?
maybe break plates:
first one with potatoes,
as if by accident:
"oops! dropped a plate. d.r.o.!"
 
then, commanding attention,
one across the mess hall,
like a flying saucer:
"hey! here's one for the mess sergeant!"
 
crash.
troops laugh.
stripes flash and brass glitters
in eerie downpouring
from globes, light fixture, fifty four each
FSN seven three one zero dash two four six dash
one one nine nine.
"and here's a couple for the whole f*****g army!"
crash, crash.
 
lifers yell stop --
raspberry gelatin replies.
crash, smash --
 
"the f******g army!"
crash.
"the whole f*****g army!"
 
- * -

 

rainfall


a tree sways
and i run.
i am lonely, and my mind
is in the gutter where the water flows.
 
i have sprinkled
sweet wine on a wet lawn,
and i run
as time across rain
or a leaf
to the wet grass.
 
- * -

 

a leaf


you run the arithmatic so smooth,
but i walk, and the morning is imperfect.
you smile, but wire tangles in the leaves.
 
last night i sat in the command post
connecting telephonic messages.
the line was overloaded
and i drank too much coke.
i had to piss in the dark.
even the stars were imperfect.
 
- * -

 

animals ambulence


elephant noises invade the room.
the hung philosopher dances
the ballerina into position
 
to agress the air
from daffodils overflowing
the streets with sunlight.
 
(it will separate into droplets on the rubber surface.
it will spill from degenerate trailers
into porcelain cups,
imperative torpedos ripping the big top.)
 
it is my frequency,
the porcelain representations,
compressed yellow daffodils flowering
blooming, extending infinity
and the end of laughter hangs before me
in streets filled with lightening,
furious menagerie,
the animals are loose!
 
- * -

 

sugar and cream


sugar and cream,
you are my dream.
sugar and cream,
on my wild oatmeal.
 
lemon and spice,
give me a slice.
lemon and spice,
for my big desert.
 
coco and milk
walking in silk.
coco and milk
in my steaming cup.

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