Portrait of Uncle Sam Weeping

The hat torn, beard wooly, like a mammoth,

only white as sugar or perhaps crack cocaine,

he can’t be sure anymore, nor can he say

with certainty why he fell asleep on this park bench,

though the sea of young baton twirlers, beer cans,

and peanuts behind him, suggests a long parade ending abruptly,

and where did he leave his sparkle shoes?

It had been one hell of a night, but what happened

after the signing of the constitution,

remained anybody’s guess. There were drinks,

hookers in white wigs, a bald guy flying a kite

in a thunderstorm, or was that the cannon fire

tearing through the Potomac, and which side

was he on anyway? He remembers singing,

my country tis’ of thee, sweet land of liberty,

but can’t remember if the next line ends

with the word “sing” or “wing,” and wishes

he were better at rhyme, because he

was never very good with reason,

and can’t remember, for the life of him, why he was in Cuba

or France for that matter, as he recalls

both having delicious cigars, and beautiful women.

As he dusts the dirt of his white shirt and bow tie,

he can’t even say for certain,

to the little boy tugging at his sleeve for an autograph,

whether or not he is, in fact,

Colonial Sanders in disguise.

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(via sleepswithpossums, crick)

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pruzzels:

inventory for my almost-perfect saturday night:

harlan ellison – the essential ellison
paul muldoon – the end of the poem
michael robbins – alien vs. predator
thomas pynchon – V.
the data journalism handbook
antologia de poesia catalana
adbusters
post-it notes
moleskine 
white noise from the air conditioner
cold water

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Who is Paul Muldoon?

From what I can tell of Paul Muldoon,

he’s on old tag hag with a penchant for light verse,

and a stalwart brand of activism that begins

with Jack and ends with Daniels.

From what I can tell of Paul Muldoon,

he’s a talent with a whip, and light of your

smoke, but there is someplace he’d rather be.

From what I can tell of Paul Muldoon,

he’s poet’s poet, and a preacher’s preacher,

but he will knock the crap out of you,

if you compare him to a rose.

From what I can tell of Paul Muldoon,

he sleeps at night with quarters over his eyes,

so that he can dream of pretty girls,

that look like presidents of the United States.

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Micheal Robbins vs. DADA

Playful garden gnomes,

experiment with their own sexuality,

gaining wisdom from the ancients.

A priest finds them in lewd positions on the lawn,

causing a brief crisis of faith.

When Alexander saw he breadth of his domain,

he wept for there were no more books to read.

What Lola wants, Lola gets, and Lola

wants to see you tonight in the Pineapple Room:

Mach 5.

And don’t forget to bring Razor Vick, and the Pantooflas.

You’ve been a naughty little Vixen,

but sometimes that’s what Santa likes.

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Night Ranger

I don’t know what it is about pot,

that makes me want to write about

Dungeons and Dragons, but

tonight I feel like a Ranger

named Rick with a high charisma,

and low tolerance for weed,

trying to escape the maze

of my past—Be gone,

lonely nights of Mt. Dew,

and popcorn balls,

casting impotent spells

instead of cruising chicks

downtown in a blue Camero

or a red Mustang

due to cruel minded dungeon masters

called Fate, and another called Acne,

who laughed when I asked

her to invite me to the prom.

And no matter how many times,

I rolled the twenty sided dice,

in the lonely cavern of my room,

it always came up, “no.”

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The Poetry Of Robert Frost’s Step Brother Hank

Out in the morning dew,

amid the quiet dawn,

I can’t help but think of a strip club

I frequent in my youth,

named, Peepers,

and a lass there named, Sue.

She showed me her

breasts like two huge loaves

of leavened bread

baked real nice, just for me.

For six pence to a dollar,

she bade me go

hither and thither,

and I went gladly,

unlike my brother Robert,

getting sleepy

in his snowy woods,

and whatnot.

I felt alive there,

betwixt that sweet perfume

and those tassles

twirling round & round

my head,

and the go-go boots

that went for miles, so so many miles.

I felt so alive, in fact,

that whenever I

try to write about

“a tender hush

of a dew berry”

or “a road less

traveled,”

it always

leads back

to that strip club

called, Peepers,

and good old Sue.

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Madame Bovary

A girl is writing in a small cafe

and the night sky is like a black ocean.

She’s scribbling names of famous writers in a book

she shows no one, not even her father

who works at the Mill, and loves her.

When she opens a book set in Paris,

the dreary streets she walks on

turn into cobblestones beneath her feet,

and she wishes she could say, “bon jour”

to the waitress who pours her coffee.

When a lover comes calling in the rain,

he’s a thing of such frail beauty,

that when she sees some boys

she knew in school approaching,

she closes her book

and hides it like a lover beneath her skirt,

protecting it from the loud young men

of this town, who all work at the mill

with their fathers, making paper

for books they’ll never read.

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