The Poet’s Cemetery Of Texas

Frank O’Hara was partying
on Padre Island last spring break.

When a Spanish galleon ran aground
and crushed him against a heterosexual.

I was there when they dragged him free.
His sailor suit torn to shreds.

He was barely (pun intended) alive
and reciting a poem about fiery places.

Of course, he showed no interest in bikini-clad girls,
but they showed a morbid interest in him.

He died on the way to the hospital
and Texas claimed another poet.

Jim Murdoch quoted the world's shortest poem.

Fleas

Adam
had 'em.

When I first read that poem awhile back
I added a second stanza. Here it is:

Eve
forbade 'em.

Eulogy

These are the bones of Sylvia Plath.
They have been picked clean by something mean.

These piles of hair do not need brushing.
They are beautiful lying there without air.

Whatever happened to her smile?
Whatever happened to her frown and crown?

She sealed the children in their room.
She opened the oven without a glove on.

Billy The Blogging Poet's annual shindig is about to start.
Nominations To Begin For 2008 Poet Laureate of The Blogosphere
Voting begins April 1 thru April 20.
Please vote for Ivan Carswell

Oh, That Ted!

Sylvia smokes cigarettes
because she thinks they make her look sexy.

She blows smoke in her daughter’s face.
Her daughter squints and coughs.

She blows smoke in her son’s face.
He crawls away crying.

She blows smoke in Ted’s face.
He smacks her across the mouth.

Skyhook

When my granddaughter goes to the hoop
she’s got her tongue hanging out like Michael Jordan.

Actually, she’s a year and five months old
and running across the living room floor.

She’s playing with a plastic coffee can,
putting the lid on and taking it off.

Her dolls and her talking, teaching toys
lie abandoned in the desert.

Her rat terrier climbs Mt. Everest
without oxygen or Sherpas.

When my granddaughter goes to the hoop,
Lew Alcindor has to change his shorts and god.

For Whom The Bell Tolls

The grapes were hiding in the fridge,
their little stems shaking up a storm.

They feared the monster William Carlos Williams.
The well-known heathen glutton bruten.

He spared no corn on the cob.
Not even black bananas.

Peaches, plums, and oranges were his prey.
Thank God he’s not a carnivore,

his wife is rumored to have said.
To whom, we do not know.

Hogan’s Heroes

I see men, women and children being gassed
by the bumbling, friendly Sgt. Schultz.

I am in a motel
watching porno with Col. Hogan.

I am there when LeBeau’s career
turns into a soap opera.

I wish I could tell you
I was there when Kinchloe’s stardust disappeared,

or when Newkirk left Stalag 17
to host a quiz show and die.

I am Col. Klink
and you get thirty days in the kuhler.

Arthur C. Clarke
1917-2008

Them

Sure, the towers are no longer here.
You can not see us.

But we walk up here on thin air.
We have no bodies to contain our pain.

So it just spreads out.
Pushed this way and that way by the wind.

Yet always blown back to this spot.
It is a tremendous pain.

An unbearable pain that has made its home
in our hollow souls and intensifies each passing day.

Sure, the towers are no longer here.
You can not imagine how we get by,

how we hold ourselves up by clinging to each other,
charred and dusty above the city.

At Watch-Movies.Net you can find links
to view movies which are currently
showing at theaters.The video quality
is not great but they're free. At
Hulu.com you can watch dvd quality
movies.I just saw The People That Time
Forgot and Planet of the Apes,I think
the 2001 version.Only one draw back,they
have about five or six 30 second commercials.
But that's not too bad because it gives
you a chance to grab a drink or sandwich.
Hulu also has the latest TV shows and old
TV shows including all the episodes of
Lost In Space.

I feel it’s my obligation to warn others about developing issues kept out of the mainstream media by those who wish us to remain ignorant (note: I remain ignorant by choice, but other people are kept ignorant by the suppression of information like that I’m about to reveal.)

Thanks to revelations reported by whistleblowers and Chicano poets we all understand the risks imposed by our reliance on fossil fuels, especially foreign oil. Speaking scientifically, foreign oil contains many free radicals, elements that can be detrimental to our way of life in the West. Free radicals should never be liberated by the burning of foreign oil.

But equally important, though never reported, is the increasing shortage of electrons available to those of us in the West since the invention of electricity.

Those of us who stayed awake through most of our advanced physics classes can tell you that matter cannot be created. That means that we can’t create new electrons. The more all-American electrons we use up in computers, GPS systems and such reduce the amount of electrons we have for future use.

Read the rest here.

Lame Duck

The war was going badly,
but when the cartoon characters started dying,

we knew that Bush would have to go.
Elmer got his rifle, and Elmer got his gun,

and Elmer got a tank from Patton.
They tried to stop him at the White House gate,

they tried to stop him in the Rose Garden,
but soon he’d forced his way into the Oval Office,

and shot the idiot President dead.
“Eh, what’s up, Doc?” said Bugs. The doc says, “You’re dead!”

Heckel and Jeckel lay stiff outside.
The roasted Porky Pig had an apple in his mouth.

Tom and Jerry stunk up the show.
That’s all, folks. That’s all.

I am on vacation until March 31.
Meanwhile,I will post when I can.

Prospector

I was digging for gold in the desert
outside of Palm Springs
when I accidently dug up Cesar Chavez.

I told him,nothing's changed,brother,
and he lay back down
with my shovel still stuck in his chest.

Sylvia Plath wrote in the midst of growing racial tensions in the 1950's and 1960's America.Her work demonstrates ambivalence towards her role as a middle-class white woman.In this paper,I examine the racial implications in Plath's color terms.I disagree with Renee Curry's reading in White Women Writing White that Plath only considers her whiteness insofar as it affects herself.Through a phenomenological study of how whiteness shifts meaning in this poem,I hope to show that Curry's negative estimation is only partly right.I suggest that embodiment is a problem for Plath in general,and this contributes to her inability to fully examine other bodies.

Read more here.

The Motorcycle

Did you know that my half-brother Eloy
died in a motorcycle accident

when he was sixteen? Yes, the blue desert
took him, crushed his skull

against blue cactus,the blue sand
covered his wounds, the blue ants

came out to the highway duty bound.
A lone cloud dipped out of the blue sky

but did not render aid, it only motioned
to that kind of cloud which does.

Its blue hands startled Eloy.
Ah, you didn’t know the dead could be startled?

Today the blue desert goes about its business
as if Eloy had never tried to motorcycle by.

Biker Chick

I stepped off my motorcycle
to steal her panties.

Nine times out of ten
it’s only a figure of speech.

She ran her fingers through my hair
and found the stab wound of my race.

The scab put Egyptians to shame
as I roared away from the beer joint.

Never trust a woman whose lips
can be stuffed into a pair of pretty faces.

If Truths Be Told


She was sitting on the toilet
when the first plane hit the tower,
she died with urine still trickling down her thighs.

He’d been in Baghdad two weeks,
was out on his first patrol,
had just farted, when a sniper’s bullet

found a sweet home in his head.
That’s the thing about death,
thought Henry to hisself while he jerked off---

his wife of thirty years having made her vagina
into an abandoned Polack church
in Czestochowa, Texas, long ago.

Mexican Metamorphosis

We were watching reality television
last night
when Mr. Bones’s rolltop desk,

begin to shudder, sat on its haunches,
rocked back and forth like La Llorona,
then burst into a dozen, wilted roses.

Henry hisself was mesmerized
by the shaking of her thighs
and would not be distracted

even by a naked Paula Abdul on the boob tube,
and even less so as La Llorona pulled
her wet, unconscious children from the creek,

and shook them as hard as she could until,
one by one, they opened their eyes
to cry.