Letters to My Older Self


A Letter to My Older Self


On Gabriel’s Hill

Crack the opus
on a seven day holiday
in dubious luxury
ashore on Louie’s terra firma
with my Alexis.

Take the Cherokee Express
up to Garbiel’s Hill
where it’s Baybaleanous –
everyone punch happy
on American Brew.

Poetic Lana, a stoic angel,
with none of the Beats today
pours over a bid report
next to Lily Luna
who’s got that Kansas tornado spunk
a real Mr. Monday Night
King Macho repeller

has done some tangling and tangoing
with Dancing Nick by the fence
just a guy in a top hat
can dance a nifty mambo,
but can’t talk in fake Spanish
to save his life
“El tajin
mi preciosa?”
but a sumkin else kind of dancer.

Marylin’s guy,
Jodi’s revenge,
now tickling Tori
and the devil approved it.

Love in the heir
as the real Brian
melts with Rene’s kisses
for one day
not the prudent heir.

The Rexdale Warrior
two heart attacks and still going
taking his dynakrall
down to Ruthville;
JP’s fling, slingshot Lisa,
turning south down
Damian’s way.

The Legislady,
Ms. Freightshaker herself,
just out for a walk, no pressing the flesh,
sees someone’s orange monster
in a low branch, thinks of
climbing the forest wire to reach it;

Calico Jack
with his strait abby
deputy honor
arrives faster
scoops it down in express rescue.

Madame Bling
sporting her cheap rhinestone
is being bad again
trying to catch
Marek’s Czech eyes,

but he’s off thinking how
Margie’s for the birds, no
she’s a great gal, I ain’t lyin’
I might just give her
Rosalita’s wish for a grandchild.

A.U., miner of the Stone’s River,
sings with the water’s rush his harmonizer,
finding by awesome chance
a little gem that’ll look good with some
sprightly polish around the neck of
his polished princess,
Lucy Quatorze,
once Miss Nepal,
now Miss Harford County.

Denoguska, only daughter of
Muskwa, a descendant of gypsy kings,
bragging she can turn summer to winter,
gets dared by the smarty day metro man
says “Ready. Set. Snow!”
and the flakes come down in the middle of summer
into the open mouth of Albert’s protégé,
the violinist, as he looks up
to the moonbow replacing the rainbow
and asks “Is this a dream?”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

poem composed using the names of all 80 horses running at Philadelphia Park on Saturday, July 17, 2010.

The Trouble With Poetry And Other Things Resembling Poems Here In The Late Honda Dynasty

The trouble with poetry
and other things resembling poems
here in the late Honda dynasty
all comes down to ballistics.

The wind blows
the apple that astonished Paris
through the doors of my heart,
stray home to the blue iris moon
on the meadow,
into mouths of white egrets
following the Truro bear,
but fails to slake thirst for
the apple trees at Olena
and other adventures.

Under the shadow of Sirius
are the pleasures of the damned,
acolytes and unincorporated persons
versed in vengeful hymns,
new bicycles circumscribed
to rolling only a village life,
gathering collected red bird leavings,
evidence of a losing season,
love poems bound as
“Selected Newspaper Blackout Headlines: Volume Two”
The critics favorite in the restored edition?
“Ariel Nox Upgraded to Serious”

Wait here,

Wait here
until after


Poem constructed from the titles of Poetry Foundation’s current list of top 30 best-selling poetry books – “Contemporary Best Sellers: Week of June 7, 2010”

(although from the way the URL looks, this page will all be changed by next week).

I guess as a challenge, one could attempt to pick the titles out of each volume of poetry without cheating by looking at the list, but I think the folks who could pick out EVERY one could probably fit in a small lecture hall. So if you can do that without cheating, you’re in very select company – which may be part of the point (ballistics being a means of identification and, etc., etc.)

I’m embarrassed to say that the only one I would have been able to pick out beforehand was Tony Hoagland’s new book, but only by the title (which I broke up) and not the author. I’m probably more embarrassed to admit that as someone who’s supposedly a Bukowski fan, I wouldn’t have been able to pick out “The Pleasures of the Damned,” which apparently has been out now for over a year and a half.

Go Glory, Go

Red hot jazz
in a red hot summer
no Bach around
“O when the saints…”

Dance safely Moonlight Missy
Miss Blue Tye Dye
not for the money like
Dancing Jeannie
or Kansas Kitty
(what a smile!)
for yours is a more
elegant card.

Dance a moon jam on slate
under a classic moon.
Dance to the song of the West
Dance with determination
pouring from your musical heart.

You outclass Stormin Bonnie
the Ashton girl
in whose smoken dreams
her moon royal Gaelic journey
to seaside fortune
turned to farm subsidy
bid report
her last Celtic meal
an insurance money Galan fete.

Sure, Alice is a ten
but she’s an A and J girl
an iron countess with Cherokee focus
follows none except Sweet Bernie
Max’s runner from Cape Finisterre
near the Narbona Pass.

You are the rare breed
the best lass
no need for
Betty’s halo or
Donna’s glitter Indian delight.

You mine for love
in dark thunder
with no safety check.

Yesterday’s “that boy” killed
Grunwald Hensley Ocarson
second in power to Puddy de Luca
“Senor Happy”
“The Winged Warrior”
“The Tejanos Eliminator”
(Miss Mia calls him
“Baby King”
Lalique and Jemilyn (Jackie G.)
“Whistle Pig”).

He skipped out at the bonheur
took the Australis Express
back to Maryville
to Miss Bauer and
Charming Megan.

“I’m Not Crying.”

I believe you
stoic angel.

I believe you
three times a wonder.

I believe in your
special truth mirrored in a
bright abyss of shining sea.

I believe
for once and forever
maybe just this one time
we can make the winning drive.

So how bout tonight?
Carolus Magnus

How about we make it
Go Glory Go

Poem constructed by using the names of every horse running in every race at Philadelphia Park Friday, 5/7/10 (77 horses total).