S’MORES

  Acquisition and clean up,
the things we do, and those
who are tasked with the remains
of our desire.

This nobility of mission,
of keeping things right,
unnoticed when accomplished,
issue of complaint
when left undone.

In the doing resides
dignity.

All else is failure.

Shadow Rattles

 Shadow rattles through dreams
of a non-trivial world.
Shifting Ragtime emancipation
atop relentless syncopation of
rails and ties.

Through the trespass of 
industrial apprehension,
inoculated and immune
by the solace of destination,

fleeing, once again,
the rubble and rust
of burden
and imposition.

Old Goat

  He don’t give a damn that his glasses
aren’t prescription,
cuz he don’t know how to read,
except the musky scent
of Ohh La La.

He’s been cool since he was a kid
and damn well knows it.

He digs the attention
and a dry, shady corner
to think of days gone by
and to goat dream away
of scaling mountains,
and climbing trees,
and with an audience
he looks down at us
and sez with confidence:
Look what I can do

while he sashays towards Geezerville Pastures. .

Gyae o, Ahoofe Ntua Ka

 
Gyae o, Ahoofe Ntua Ka

Physical beauty is nothing,
Death will come in your sleep.
Enjoy life.

My jolly has gone abroad,
Nocturnal lady.
Love doesn’t die completely
There are varieties:
Money,
Handcuffs,
Groundnuts.
It’s really pained me,
My darling, be patient.

* Gyae o, Ahoofe Ntua Ka Physical beauty is nothing

This is the second in a series of found poems constructed from the titles of Ghanaian Highlife songs from the 1960’s.

Behold the Ceaseless Process

 
Behold
the ceaseless process 
of going nowhere.

Gravity brings everything down.

Within implicit spaciousness
the levity of
spontaneous actions 
defy the awful weight of living.

Yet,
so it seems,
the world’s teeming
with conjectures and words
that might, in fact,
at no point,
can we be free from them.

Nonsense - 

there’s no accounting 
for flux and unpredictability.

Uneasy Laugh


With the uneasy laugh of horror
The World Clown Association decided
to put on a skit:
two balloons under their bosoms
and carbon dioxide sparklers.
The balloons didn’t fill up equally,
and there were butt prints in the dough.

Hidden incendiary girls,
mobilized vulnerability,
eat bitterness.

Boom, Boom! 

Custom is the king of all;
they would wish to get paid to devour 
the corpses of their fathers.

That way they’ll be happy.

Animated ornaments
at the Kitty Cantina;
The Heavyweight Sisters,
Dark Monkeys,
and The Mutual Benefit Society,
obstructing government administration,
negotiating worthless instruments;

their words were a desecration of silence,
the transformation of radical ideas 
into culture, a diehard rejection 
of the idea that we ourselves might be 
one such cataclysm.

Human exceptionalism, the
madness gene,
gradually blinkered,
like a star role from no-man’s land.

The dinosaurs came, 
got too big and fat, 
so they all died 
and turned into oil.

Dissolute Monster

 
Dissolute Monster
on display,
bells begin to buzz

with masochistic eagerness
warns you of
debased currency,
flamboyant connoisseur of ironic despair
manufactured felt emotions
readymade in America,

furious folly of these times.

This mammoth antiseptic bath cleanses
a distaste for the reverential attitudes 
towards the special nature of the artist

A purity of expression
of frustration and anger
with games, masks, and buffoonery.