new poems done or near done

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The Yogis of Tibet allowed

a documentary of long-held knowledge;

ways of snapping their limbs

and bringing the little finger

to a nostril. How stupid,

those dumb little monks

missing out on so much life.

But if it’s true, stuff like that

allows you to leave a body

to wherever you wanted

to visit in the universe:

maybe they’ve been living the

most profound life

a human could do,

maybe we’re all the sleepwalkers

and they and those like them

around the globe

really know what’s going on.

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Can you believe all the decades

you believed the Sumerians

were just cute little farmers

and artisans, funny looking

people with blue eyes and black beards,

always standing with their

hands clasped at the solar plexus

as if at the ready to serve;

and you never knew

of the disputations

of the plow and the hoe,

the poplar and ash

the palm and vine;

you never knew; where now

the sculptures with pupils

as large as saucers

finally make sense.

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After I got beat up

by sixth graders most

the day while substitute teaching,

then read in the papers

a producer's wife

with two young

children supposedly

jumped to her death—

that's when

I knew again I was pissed;

when I knew they

better hope I die.

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When a poetry reading is like the Olympics, trying to enunciate every syllable and actuation perfectly of sound and idea, suppose I’m to stumble? Might even be I'm too drunk to speak. But if I was going to read poems like a rock concert, where every song is played perfectly, in that a poem if it's really good, its insights silences . The poem is just trying to say something true, speak the truth; as Emily Dickinson said, it is a delight. If I'm a mess I'll still try my best; play my greatest hits and see if it elicits silence. I have to go.

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Beautiful human, young and glowing, came walking down the beach,

full wetsuit up to just the face—

fins, mask, snorkel in hand.

She’s focused on a spot just outside the rocks,

in a tempo of search and dive,

looks like she’s living her best life.

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Let's say you've rarely engaged in iniquity—gross injustice—wickedness—

besmirch of spirit of that sort; and let's say the bad guys want you dead,

but for some reason it’s yet to happen;

and let's say you're a poet since the

age of ten, the hunt for pathos

to say things can be better

all day,

every day.

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Jesus tap-dancing Christ bro,

I didn't come here after a long day at work

to talk about Emily Dickinson.

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When you’re one popped tire from a used shop; when your one popped tire from living in the bushes, that's when you know you're flying by the seat of your pants.

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Remember you heard the Godzilla sound

as a young artist, death stream for truth, for truth?

Vowing to get to the heart of the matter,

slaying injustice?

Good work, your delusional efforts

found the chink in a monster's armor.

Best of luck.

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Remember, when you were woken to war as a five year-old, upon seeing the picture of a naked girl, arms akimbo, walking down a road some ways away from where napalm had sprayed and burned most of her body. Remember, going to bed quiet, and lying there resolved that you were too young to know the score, but as soon as you found out what it is, war would end.