Five New Poems, Five Old Ones, 10 May 2013

Reality Drill, Spring 2013

Taurus comes around again to remind us that the
bulldog or bull types may have a fun life, but cause
a lot of misery along the way. For men the only sign
more insanely aggressive is the tricky, often purely
manipulative Scorpio group. They rise to the top as
Machiavelli prescribes, then take credit for other
people’s work, while always recruiting an expanding
power base. A capitalist’s dream birth month for
her number one son thus being November. So how
to infuse creative verve associated with Gemini?
Elementary school sirens blare a practice drill here
at the tip of the world war spear, so it all may be a
moot point if ever these drills are attached to real
bombs. Dust flies as children line up or run home
before being accounted for. Accounted for, ha!
None of the creeps above is accountable for anything
other than profit. Even if their own cloistered New
England boarding school brats seem safe, maybe the
Next school slaying will be revolutionary, in which a
Fed up impoverished man goes nuts all over rich kids.

4 November 2011, 7 May 2013

The most orange sun
ever sinks
under old stretched wire,
lower half fades out.
Dusty sunset in

autumn haze
defines harvest as
rice fields burn, sun eclipsed,
then gone as
brisk air aids breathing,

but spring style dust then
heat blares. So
single diners are
turned away for fear
they’d embarrass the

others, or
themselves: blossoms range
from muted cherry to the
absurd red-
pink azalea bush

smashes, a
juxtaposition more op-
art than those
thin-lined paintings by
Anuskiewicz. March

brought one more
round of U.S. war games, which
caused Kim Jung
Eun to launch missiles.
When will it end? How?

Activating Young Haves

Isn’t it the bomb when one of three decent food
joints opens a second helping right down the street?
Meeting get more accomplished when the food’s good. Up
here the music and atmosphere beat surrounding competitors,
so escaping the grind is possible as well. Lemon Table, a real
Gwangju original, has given in to witness a lot of love
bloom, even more friends laugh. This time Kang Dan Bi
and Ju Hee, next time Little Bear suggests his burger
heaven, and Big Bear easily agrees. We, the lucky ones,
earn enough to eat out, relax, not worry where our
next meal is going to come from. We salute those
who teach how to create local economies that provide
meager livings form micro-loans, like Peace Boat, or
the group that hands out livestock, mostly chickens and
goats. Isn’t it amazing the changes that occur for so little
for so many with so few coordinating the whole shebang?
It’s a drop in the globalized, for-profit, cheap labor bucket,
but how did we all give up natural instincts in favor of suburbia,
or urban wealth? City dwellers have outnumbered the
countryside humans since nineteen ninety four. Too bad.

Seoul, Oh; So Low; Solo

Drenched girls scope
Uchiro, a road
that defines
Chonnam from Humun,
scholars from hunters.

Style points must
be made at all times:
now Burberry umbrellas,
to save hair,
high heeled rubber boots.

My love struts
Confidently rain
Or shine, her
New smile displays what
Her mouth cannot tell.

spreads to all who know
her, making
this a spring she will
remember as love

unfolds, brings
new horizons into view.
She may be
only seeing them
in isolation,

but this is
when we need the breathing space
the most, is
it not? Go fourth in
peace without me now.

The Dating Game

Here in the land of lips, where hand-crafted faces
usually smile, and fashion, instilled by pop icons
creates consumer-crazy eye-candy at a seventy percent
clip: where even the boys don pork-pie hats and Buddy
Holly thick frames, or silver shiny suits to match chrome
speckled cars, the young have quantum leaped generation
gaps, creating sea, nay ocean between stunned Confucian
parents, who can’t bear to have the fun their children
are. Pairs, conceived by beauty likeness or wallet fatness
still give in to parental norms by playing hard to get, until
soju, the cheapest drunk-per-dollar available on planet
Earth, kicks in to free both body and mind. Ancient ties
still bind until marriage, but three levels of dating occur
on the peninsula: one-night romance, either with or without
wooing period, long-standing, in which some or all friends
know about it, or the guy who is invited to her house for
Thanksgiving dinner. Openly confident women wonder
when men will grow the nerve to come right out and ask,
so the classic “set-up” date where her best friend picks a boy,
or his best friend picks any girl adds quick sex to the mix.


New Ones above, Old Ones below


Ode to the Seedless Thompson Grape

Oh Thompson you’ve done it you devilish man,
Made concords repulsive, made eating so grand.
The sensamilla of fruit I hold in my hand,
My thought is to eat it, what a great plan.

September reminds me to lay a few in,
Ten pounds or so in a Rubbermaid bin.
They might last a month (five weeks if I’m lucky)
By November my tears could turn springwater mucky.

Why cry, asks a friend, over some stupid fruit,
(I’d punch out her eyelids if she weren’t so cute).
Are you kidding I shout, have you no compassion?
How dare you insult my fruit in this fashion!

Next thing you know you’ll attack my banana,
Or musical tastes from Cream to Santana.
Back off little lady, this grape is near perfect,
It’s better than Brando or Raspberry sherbet.

Next year I think I’ll acquire a freezer
And dump this dumb broad just after I squeeze her.
Then I’ll enjoy grapes through the snow
As old vineyards wither and icicles grow.


I sit in Barbee House unnoticed,
Uninvited, a mason jar full
To overflowing: crushed ice: an
Original wild berry flavored cooler.

I write, as the jar, wrapped in
A torn brown once-bag.
As the felt on the bag,
Exuding red water-soluble ink.

It rains. This disappears before you
Read it, and I, the lone alumnus
In this alumnae building, flow
Onto a white manicured davenport.

Then, as sweat pours down my
Hot-humid epidermis of glass
I stop enough to gulp myself
Before the last drop hits the floor.

Soup is Good Food

Coffee grounds, like so much weeping,
Never find a place. You can’t fertilize with tears,
You can’t exasperate yourself with leftovers.

Eggshells, like so much death,
Have no place thinking. You can’t explain their existence,
You dare not whisper in their presence.

Fifties decor, like so much sex,
Never adds to the place. You keep your condoms
Hoping to avoid disease. Never get a chance.

Kodachrome, like so much tax,
Places judgement on obstacles. You grind
Existence into death, snapping housefly moments.

Banana peels, like so much emotion,
Send ball lightning through your place.
Nothing grabs like solo meatloaf dinners.

Modern Sonnet One

October hangs an orange half-moon
Necco wafer colored illumination:
Confectioner’s halo, sugar dusted hallucination
Bouncing (barely) between bushes.

Rays, through fog’s insipid blockage,
Hypnotize your member and the mound.
Life-barbaric deca-dents your soul.
Dogs howl at your heart, impure.

Wind infects limbs like lambs unwooled;
Directs your body to hooded lips.
Suggestive steam, libationary longings,
Foreskin forces dextrous dappling.

Sordid yearnings rectify your column,
Twitching tunnels tantalize.


Watercolors fill spaces between
Pine branches as the moon delivers
Inconsistent relfections
To a wandering man.

Winds blow, rearrange
Shadows at his feet.
This starts him thinking.
He angles across a field.

He enters darkness,
Lured by solid colors,
Wallowing away from fields
To a thick-boughed stand:

Crashes into sticky bark
Falling under weaving cones
Crumpled in a mass of blue,
Surrounded, cold, but sheltered.

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