For the Summer

School is almost

over for the summer

but of course

school is never

really over

because the teachers

wandering the halls

won't

shut up

and the bad kids,

the stoners and the

ill-equipped,  continue

to find their lockers,

open them with 

a smirk, and find

the silly books

that their

parents bought. 

  

The Brakes

The decision to approach

the word was costly.

I jetted to conclusions 

that weren't logical.

I am fond of this sort

of decision. This sort

of thinking is right

down my throat-pipe. 

So, instead of feeling

guilty just because

the universe sucker

punches you,

How about starting

a new group 

focused on being groupy-er.

This makes sense.

I'm wanting to outlast

you in regard to

thoughts, but my thoughts

keep stopping. 

The Mustache!

What you might not notice

by reading these words

is that I have a 

mustache 

as I write them 

and this mustache persists 

even through

the length of this

sentence or this 

poem and then,

at night, 

underneath faint starlight

(or nights that aren't lit)

this mustache grows.

The length 

of my upper lip is comforted

by these unshorn face pores.

In its gauzy blanket

I find warmness.

My mustache, my honey.

The warm syrup of my

mustache is what I tongue

when I lick toward my nose.

The mustache grows! Alive!

And like thousands of bad movies

these pressures 

keep pressing.

The deep dreams they can't describe

in the mustache!

Poems Promote Poetry!

New things regarding Hitler's Mustache:

1. go to page 109 once you've followed this link to Oranges and Sardines

2. this terrific rewording of a short interview I did

3. also nice to be mentioned here

 Also, I'm still reading poems here with some really cool people. Bloof! Shanna! NaPoMo!

Stock

One thing more stupid

than poetry

is hitting a person

with a hammer.

Another thing stupider

than a poem

is rubbing your

knuckles with sandpaper.

If you pushed a baby

stroller in front 

of a bus, that would

be worse than a poem.

Something else worse

than a poem, putting 

ketchup in the 

pockets of your black suit.

Also worse might

be walking 

into a wall or killing

a little fish.

Also (I just thought of this)

a serious ailment

is way worse

than the average poem. 

Poem

No time

to write

a puzzle,

busy

with

turtles. 

New

I feel

like

I did

yesterday.

Something Not New

I don't want to write

a poem

of course, I never do

but just find

myself here. I'm sure

you understand

or, if not, 

don't care

A Link and A Poem for the Day

There's this

and also the other half

of the world

which is proud

to be getting more

violent or

less violent 

depending on the way

the sun moves

or doesn't move

but always 

forgets something.

I ask questions

without question 

marks. Mark, it's

something I do. 

International Politics

I've been having moments

of doubt which seem to stretch across

the day as does a tarp,

sealing the grass below from the sun, 

becoming a terrific place

for slugs and ants and worms.

On this dank surface, I travel

about in my 2 wheeled buggy.

Pulled by the 4 hoofed horse,

I can hear the wind whispering

in my crinkly ears. The sound

is not like a guitar or clarinet solo.

Instead, I register nothing

but the ugly hiss of nationalism. 

To Clarify

I couldn't really evaluate my performance.

I was trying hard,

but, also, as someone else might say, hardly trying.

I wanted to be able to clearly ascertain 

the reality of the situation,

but, unfortunately, clear ascertainment 

is not my strong suit.

Instead, I am good at fog machines and generating

foggy environments like those created by

real smoke, dry ice, or genuine fog. Now,

when you think you understand

all of the songs from the eighties, that's

when the fear creeps up on you

and you can feel sharp, itty claws. 

I Am Not A Failure

I am not a failure, but a human.

When I enjoy various aspects of humanity, I am not a failure.

Even if I don't enjoy various aspects of humanity, I am not a failure.

Or, I am a failure.

I can't quite know for sure. 

I believe I am not a failure, but I'm only guessing.

When I notice how human I am standing, let's say, in front of a window

and catching a faint reflection in the glass, I also notice

my status, as a failure or as not a failure.

When I consider my status I often have second thoughts.

One thought: failure. Another thought: not failure.

As a human, determined to stay so, I often don't consider

myself human. Instead, I look at myself as a graph or a record

for what might have been a human.

I am an inadequate but passable record keeper.

As for records, I spin on a turntable in a failure like way,

with the skipping and the warping.

As for my non-failure, it is beautiful and not a failure.

It is very, very enjoyable. I like not failing.

I'm even a fan of positive reinforcement. 

I Am A Failure #3

When watching TV, when watching a DVD, when listening to a CD, when carefully considering questions of religion and philosophy, I am failure.

The mirror always sees failure.

Petting a dog or rubbing it behind his ears, I fail badly. 

When I whistle, I fail badly as a whistler.

Taking an elevator, escalator, or bus, my failure is obvious.

When eating candy and cake and ice cream I am a dessert failure.

Remembering happy moments from elementary school, I am a failure.

This failing comes easy.

It actually feels good because it's so easy.

I was touching another human's ear, in a tender manner, and I was failing.

I was stating that I was a failure, failing.

When I was failing, I was a failure.

When I was considering the cartoon, failing.

Holding a bottle, failing.

Wearing my glasses, really failing. 

Walking through the grass is a type of failure.

Changing my clothes I feel really like a failure.

The way I fail at each spectacular moment is breathtaking. I look at these moments in a failing way. 

I love them in a failing manner. 

Using a hammer or an electric drill.

Reading a newspaper.

When I take a bath in my kids' bath water, I don't get as clean as I could. I am a hygienic failure.

When I skimp on my work-out, I am a fitness failure.

I am really failure-like. 

When I find certain definitions, I am failing in a dictionary sort of way. 

All this failure is moving along as planned. 

The failure is written into the text.

I am trying to change this sense of failure, but I am

not having much success. 

I feel like a failure often.

Sometimes, all alone, I feel like a failure. 

I Am A Failure #2

When I build an addition to my kid's fort,

I am a failure.

As I drive my car? Failure.

As I eat slim pizza for dinner? Failure.

As I dream of my former cars? I am a failure.

Also, visiting with friends, I fail.

When I wake, after a sweet night of sleep, I fail. 

It is very predictable and annoying.

When I think of you, sweet success who awaits, 

I am failing very big time. So much so

I am trying to block something out

but instead am erasing my own ideas. 

I Am a Failure

I am always a failure.

No matter how many poems I decide to write, I am a failure.

No matter how many failures I don't have,

I am a failure.

If I have some success, I am still a failure.

If I am told that I am not a failure, I am still a failure.

I am always failing because I can not succeed. 

I can succeed and still I fail.

I can win the race and still fail to place.

I am a failure regardless of what place I get.

I am a failure in every race.

When I sleep at night, I sleep as a failure.

Even if magazines and television programs proclaim

me a success, I am a failure.

Even when I am lauded as a success, I am a failure.

I always fail.

When I achieve something, I have failed.

When I accomplish a goal, I fail.

Even when I don't do something, I am a failure. 

A Poem to Read

And Nate Logan wrote this poem, which is sweet of him.

Listening at Bloof

You should listen to this, curtsy Shanna and Bloof. 

Monday Evening Such-Such

To think of you

as something different

is natural 

and regarded 

by the most important

people as peopled 

with humanness.

You pound the pavement,

you bury the foam,

you shoot stars like you

want to cream the minor

chords in all major songs.

You pretend

to be the British invasion

or the boyfriend

who wins

but (long view here) you 

know how silly it is

to act like a real

blues musician. 

To My Two Kids

I love you. I love you both, so much.

I love you both, so much.

I just love you and I don't know how 

to love you more.

I just love you so much.

I love both of you so much. You are better

than anything in the world. I cannot think

of one thing in the world I would trade you for.

I wouldn't trade you for millions of dollars

or fame or power. I would not trade

you to see all of my other dreams in life

come true. I just love you both so much.

I just love you so very much.

As I kissed you both before bed,

as I hugged you both before bed,

I couldn't have been happier. I would

not trade your hugs or kisses for

anything in the world. I would not trade your

hugs and kisses for millions of dollars

or fame or power. I love you so much

that I wish I could love you more and be even

more to you, even more for you, help you and love

you just that much more. I love you  both so much.

I would love to say something better than just

I love you, but I don't know how to say I love you

anymore plainly than to say, I love you. I just

love you both so much. I know that my parents

love me and now I love you too. I love you so

much. I had no idea that I could feel this way.

I had no idea the love my parents had for me. I would

not trade you for my parents or my brothers 

or my wife or for anything in the world, not millions

of dollars or fame or power. 

I had no idea that love could describe how I

feel for you and how parents feel for their 

children. I did not know that vocabulary was so

inadequate. I just love you both. I love you both.

I just love you both so much that I want to

invent something new to describe it. But I can't invent

anything new. I just love you both so much

and want you to know how much I love you because

that is part of the point of all of my love. I had

no idea that love had a point before. But now I know

the point. The point is you. I just love you both.

I just really, really love you. I love you so much.

I just really, really love you both. I would

not trade my love for you for anything, not millions

or fame or power, not people or food or immortality.

I would not trade you or your love for anything

or any other love. I love you both so much.

I love you both so much more than I can say.

I love you both so much more than I can say.

I love you both so much more than I can say in this poem.  

The Point

The word not available to the mouth

is the word you need, the one you want

to crutch beneath your armpits 

and lean into, sucking a purple little hickey

from it's neck and driving its dirty adolescent 

imagination off a cliff. Way down in the valley,

crashed and mushed in the pines, my steady

wet dreams of love, of understanding, of

communication seem to be deep

within this pretty girls jeans. My fingers

keep crawling in that direction, inching

always with a simple destination. We all

have been there before and we are always

coming back with the same dumb flowers. 

 

5 7 5 on the Undercover Cop

Is it cheating to

write 5 7 5 haikus

and call them real poems?

Haiku

Kent Johnson will read

on Thursday in Muncie, IN.

Some good shit, people. 

Once

Writing 

a poem

is the easiest

thing in 

the world

except

for when 

it is. 

Like People Who Fear Obama

The enemies

of  National Poetry Month 

anxiously

oil their guns and

bitch to their spouses

about the world

getting worse

and it sucks and sucks

etc. All through 

the horrible, shitty

month of April. 

A Gentle Reminder

Getting Dressed

I can never decide

 if I am a failure

or a success. I feel

good some days 

and other days I feel bad.

I would tell myself not to use

words like good and

bad, but I'm lazy 

which might explain

my inability to reach 

a conclusion. In conclusion,

I dislike everything 

about myself including

this poem and it's little

tiny hat that I put on

here at the end.  

Quickness

Kids were running

and tackling and 

turning their ankles

and whatnot,

tripping around 

the island

and the adults

were drinking pizza

and beer too

and then the wine

started to take

effect and something

very strange bypassed

the landscape. In

the moon (in the whitish

area surrounding 

the moon) the kids

were laughing

and some were calling

out and then 

the sound of 

nothing and dead

animals collapsing

on the roof. 

In Less Than A Week

Poetry people of Muncie and surrounding counties, you would be very silly to miss this reading! It just wouldn't make sense.

The Idea

If was effortless and moving in an ugly

direction. The priest wasn't satisfied with 

the ribcage. The parents weren't satisfied

with the priest. The mother was weeping

and counting. The father was no father

at all, instead, a lonely crumpled sheet

of paper. He began beating his fold-y wings

and shushing the wind. O, the wind. Always

we end in this situation with the wind

eating the Jello from our plates. My dead 

sister, who never made sense till she 

was gone, she no longer was gone and 

was suddenly here and explaining some

reasonably complicated shit. I was just 

gawking and fussing over the back

half of my brain. Back there, barking, barking,

barking, barking. In the front office,

good times I shouldn't talk about. 

The People in The Middle

The people in

the middle

are waist-like

and also similar to

a belt.

The belt shape,

or the oval

or semi-circle,

is ubiquitous everywhere

you roll.

Say you are in

a motorcycle gang

and have a certain

patch sewn 

to your black jacket.

This sort of thing

is predictable.

Please, try

to calm everyone down.

You're totally 

overreacting by, like,  

freaking out. 

April Fool's Day

I began the day with too many

accidental pills, jutting

my nuts and shoulders up

making me sucky feeling.

And then, the sin of work.

And then, the then of dinner.

And then, the sound of this

and the little bitty beetle

munching on my post-it notes.