Or as Noam Chomsky says, “Colourless Green Ideas Sleep Furiously.” Anyway, first I was a singer. Then I was a poet. Then I was a writer. Then I went back to being a singer again–a rather sad excuse for a Renaissance man, I guess. Whatever. Please click on the (forthcoming) PDFs for various prose and poetry works.

In the meantime, here are five poems:

The Invalid

The moon is a germ
In the bloodstream
Of an invalid universe

Its indigo stomach
May only be viewed
When playing dead

One last crokinole piece
Skimming over the tarred 
Threads of night’s mesh

A type of bait cast
In a greasy spawning bed
Precursor to christmas
 

She Hung The Stars

She hung the stars
as the ornaments of life
to be admired by those
who would turn their dangled hearts
into the ornaments of insect life

She mouthed the words
and, letting them perch on love,
had her tongue objectified
by those who would bronze the blood
which fell from her cut breast objectified 

She brought the night
as easily as warm thoughts
settle in those dreaming minds
enveloped by such soft winds
from one who brought peace as easily as night. 

Jealousy or/ Jealous Poets.

I am a jealous poet.
I hate you other poets—you with your
yellow forms, your long draw-out lyrics.
You who want me to stare, but who fail
To flag me from line one.

I am a petty poet.
I detest my privacy and lately I fear for
My sanity. Then I try to get fancy
And I lose myself and you too probably.
So I’ll stick to what I know: jealousy.

I am a resentful poet.
I abhor this new batch of book hack
jacket photos full of smarmy smiles
and low buttoned shirts. Elvis sneers.
Dyed hairs. You all make me laugh to tears.

I am a careful poet.
My bed is clean as is the cutlery.
The furnace is checked twice yearly
I can’t seem to get away from my mechanic.
I shovel my own driveway faithfully.     

I am a common poet.
I get groceries, rent movies. I buy
chocolate from hopeful schoolyard kiddies.
And by ten pm I am in bed trying to sleep
Wrestling with dreams.  Seething with envies. 

Things You’d Assume I’d Remember

If God fulfilled
Every wish
You would be dead
And I would be rich

If God fulfilled
Every plea
You would be dead
And I would be free

If God fulfilled
Every request
You would be dead
And I would be blessed

If God fulfilled
Every prayer 
You would be dead
And I wouldn’t care 

The Singer

Lunches were made
Resumes were sent.
Tomorrow the birds
will rise at 4:38 to do
their job (ie sing to
their heart’s content.)

God will pay
each one a dollar
thirty to sing. But he’s
the fool because they’d
do it for free anyway…

I sent resumes too, but
nobody called except the
birds. Tomorrow at
4:38 Am. I wonder if
they could use another
singer.