Archive for January, 2012

Oh Happy Goy! (parody of “Oh Happy Boy!” by David Tanny)

January 10, 2012


Oh happy goy! Luh luh luh

Oh happy goy! Luh luh luh

Oh happy goy! Luh luh luh

You will not hear him say “oy”

Or “schmuck!” Luh luh luh

Or “meshugganah” Luh luh luh

Or “baruch atah” Luh luh luh

“Adonai eloheinu”

He has got some bacon, some shellfish and a Christmas tree

He has a ten-inch uncircumcised #$%@, so they don’t say he’s cheap


He won’t visit Israel, except as a missionary

He doesn’t get the jokes on Seinfeld, and thinks Hebrew is Chinese


He thinks Jesus was a Christian, and American as Uncle Sam

He has got blue eyes and blond hair, and a holiday ham


There is only one big wish that will make him very happy

Is to pork a shiksa—but he doesn’t call her that, you see



Counting My Blessings (from my unreleased spoken word album)

January 2, 2012

Because I am so incompatible with the commercial

I will begin this album in the least commercial way possible

It is so noncommercial in fact that even the most independent punk venues may ban me from performing

I will show up at 924 Gilman Street and get kicked out for not being commercial enough because I have chosen to begin this album with an apology

Many of you listeners don’t even know me yet, haven’t heard a single one of my a capella music recordings

Not even “Ionic Blondes,” whatever that was

And the first thing you hear from this guy’s mouth is:

I am sorry that I have been wanting too much

I have been like a spoiled child with my constant craving of fame and fortune

Because all I’ve ever wanted is before my eyes

I have been pining for whores while I am embraced by angels

One thing some quasi-enlightened parents tell their supposedly spoiled children is that they need to count their blessings more

It’s true that very few Americans count their blessings anymore, but I do, so here they are:

I am blessed by the mere presence of Beat generation writers and every hue of punk imaginable, with many more still forming

Daria’s actually on DVD now and so is Doug

I have as much formal education as Charles Bukowski and as much poetry, quality-wise and quantity-wise, as Richard Brautigan

My name will never be forgotten in at least one Internet community and at least ten IRL communities

I evaded living in the uberconformist fifties

I evaded being alive during the Holocaust and am allowed to practice my religion seventy years later

I wrote a novel

I’m not going to beg any of you to count your blessings, but you most likely have that option, and that in itself is something to be thankful for.








The Zucchini Song

January 1, 2012

By order of a government clause

We grew some zucchinis in our backyard

But I really wanted spinach

We really wanted spinach

Now I’ll never be a spinach boy

The zucchinis grew a hundred feet tall

We had to build another brick wall

To block out the zucchinis

Those really tall zucchinis

‘Cuz now I’m a zucchini boy

Now he’s a zucchini boy

Won’t you be my zucchini toy

‘Cuz I’ve got green plants

And I’ve green pants

A zucchini boy (yeah

A zucchini boy (yeah)

Harvestin’ crops all day long

Like the crops I’m healthy and strong

‘Cuz I’ve got green plants

Get in my green pants

A zucchini boy (yeah)

A zucchini boy (yeah)

The Sad Guitarist

January 1, 2012

This is the story of the sad guitarist

He was sitting in his room, becoming pissed

He never learned chords for the songs he would brew

Because he quit guitar right before Guitar 2

In the American Empire he was bound to roam

He had many a scar and many a poem

His poetry morphed into plain guitar licks

So he never showed that verse to his favorite chicks

His favorite of all was a shiksa named Lynn

Who would take his heartstrings out for a spin

And they’d return to his chest perspiring for air

But all of this time, Lynn didn’t care

On a night with a light, his brain turned to mush

And you just couldn’t say the same for his crush

He would sit there and wish that the night was still young

And pretend that young Lynn was lax with her tongue

Duh nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh…

So that was the story of the sad guitarist

He was sitting in his room, becoming pissed

He never learned the chords for the songs he would brew

Because he quit the guitar right before Guitar 2.

Waking Up

January 1, 2012


I woke up from a dream in which Barack Obama legalized marijuana

It was only one of several legalizations to benefit the economy

But this one stood out, and we all cheered when the plant appeared on the tube


But when I woke up, all I saw was my 3 AM dorm room

My roommate shushed my sleep-cheering

He shushed me back into sleep

I woke up from a dream in which Barack Obama led the human race to peace

And I woke up from a dream in which Obama led the chimpanzee to evolution

I woke up from a dream in which a band outsold the Beatles

And I woke up from a dream in which all four members were talented than John


I woke up from a dream where I married Anne Frank’s granddaughter

And I woke up from a dream where FOX News was pay-per-view

I woke up from a dream where we all left God alone

And I woke up from a dream where autistic kids all won prizes

For putting up with the bullshit that we gave them for their lives


And I woke up to my roommate’s snoring; I woke up to “get the fuck outta bed”

I woke up knowing I’d never fulfill my dreams and I woke up to fulfill my dreams


I woke up in Seattle after marrying Frances Bean Cobain

I woke up in the Castro after Prop 8 was erased

I woke up in Santa Fe after I killed all the walking dead

And I didn’t get arrested, the cops coveted my head

Everyone knew I’d go far as I drove that classy car

And they loved my every rhyme; I was Dylan in his prime.

Poem for Rick

January 1, 2012

Cerro San Luis is a suburban Everest

After you’ve seen the other side

We were blind to life’s delicacies

Now the colors fill our eyes


An escape from doom washes your tears off

Just like junior high does to your smiles

And I will no longer let life toss me

Like I’m just around for the rides


We’ve seen an end and a new beginning

We’re together after all those forks

I’ll always 5 your creations

And I hope you’ll 5 my works.

Experimental Poems

January 1, 2012


She knows she’s Queen of College, French kissing her own face
She rides in every limousine that can satisfy her tastes
Her phone may be off the hook, yet her plug’s not in the wall
She thinks keeping up with the Kevorkians is the answer to it all

She takes Ringo of the fraternity to the pharmacy on Christie Square
They try out all the Junior Mints before she combs his hair

He tries his luck at writing, but only when he’s at his worst
He splatters pages with inkblots, though he can’t feel any verse
She claims she loves his paintings, but she means the ones in his pants
He’ll do a little sketching tonight when he makes her womanhood prance

She once helped the men of Mission Creek, but she never liked their stares
She ran past them in Throop Park last night as she took her man upstairs.



On the Inclusion of Multicolored Bears on Grateful Dead Paraphernalia


My dashboard sports some violet cubs

Which dance as I zoom to clubs

A bruin tie-dyed emerald

Is on the pack of pills I hold

Now I’m baked. A red ursine toy

Lurks in each cereal I enjoy

And hey! Stuck to the Frigidaire

I spy a fuchsia polar bear.

What would Teddy Roosevelt

Say of the blue beasts on my belt?

Perhaps orange grizzly underwear

Would be too much for TR to bear.


Poem for the GOP


The Left has risen again!

And your slave revolts are futile

Joe the Plumber’s crack appeared on national television

And your bottom bitch revealed herself to be an overgrown Poly dolly on an ego Tripp

Her preppy GOPPY daughter doesn’t look too prudish to me

We needed a break from Bush like the Kardashians need a holiday in Aruba (free of media coverage)

And now all your grubby FOX newscasters do is surround themselves with cardboard cutouts of Founding Fathers

As they utter the words, “Dammit Dems.”


Tiger Woods


Tiger eyed his little white friend

For years he’d pushed cousins of this creature around

And earned millions for his cruelty

Though he wanted to release it into the wild

He eventually overcame those emotions and trapped it in a pit, bellowing “Fore!”

Tiger apologized to his pet and wondered if it still loved him.




Many think Poseidon is your deep blue brother living in the Atlantes of the sea

A Gorgon-maker with no loving for Cyclops and a lever for earthquakes


Poseidon was a barbed wire fence which separated a flat Earth from a rotund one

Poseidon is a shipwreck thief, forever silent at the mention of Earhart’s name

Poseidon is a glutton, munching away at the Arctic Circle and an occasional pizzly bear

Poseidon isn’t changing with the times.




Albert Einstein never wore socks

So if he had used the Camp Newman showers

His stink would upstage his brilliance

He said he didn’t have time to wear socks

He spent his time thinking instead

Thinking of a world where people are judged

By the content of their character and not the presence of their socks


I’m sure other geniuses wore socks

So when Albert invented the atom bomb, they’d ask themselves,

“How can someone so smart be so stupid?”

Not because of the lethal bomb, but because of no socks


So here I lie sockless, in the midst of socked geniuses and socked & sockless novices

Wondering what I can do or say to prove my worth

For right now, I’ll have to put on my socks.


The Landfill


I’d like to vacation in the landfill

It’d be a personal archaeological dig

I’d finally remember all of my old notebook characters
I’d bring them all to life through poetry


I might bring a couple experts along with me

Like Chester, my old sixth grade teacher

He’d jump for joy at the name “Walter Jid”

A name which somehow lived on for years


I’d like to vacation in the landfill

But I wouldn’t be living in the past any more than Guthrie fans

Because I’d carry old notebooks into the present

Drenched in slime, they’d guide me through life.




I spent last night wandering about with the matriarchs’ battles echoing in my mind

Battling for the last word on drugs, verse, and rock & roll

Battling for the answer to the Jewish-Bedouin question


And as I ran up Bishop’s Peak for the third time, my heart pumped Bedouin blood

Those matriarchs can battle for centuries and they still won’t come to the conclusion

That strictly Israeli genes can produce the body of a Bedouin.



The Beats


We are the suburban Beats

The belated Beats

Three Beats and not one karat

We are small town’s poets

We are all town’s poets

Using yr poems to heighten ours

You’re the open mic Beats

You’re the no one like Beats

Using yr poems as 3 of spades

Using yr poems to dig your graves

In all small town we be elites

In all small town suburban Beats.


January 1, 2012

Our group came, saw our friendship in its prime

We passed July in shambles, through the state

All that geography conflicts with time

The slumber of my revolt cannot wait

You left before I found the chance to ask

Mere chunks of land are acres, miles, long

I’d hate to turn a chance into a task

I’ve got the blues, you knew it all along

I celebrated Sorrow while I dined

These tablemates are not among her friends

Hmmm, nine weeks trickle down my fast-paced mind

She laughs; a mental trinket’s what she lends

A temporary loss should make me pout

Just ask me how happiness came about.


January 1, 2012

Geek Scene


We used to rule the underground

But after the empire died

I found my friend uprooting violets

And he told me I was doing it wrong


No matter how deep you dig

You can never escape the status quo.


Girl in Revolt


Through all your pleasures, you endanger your life
At least I don’t need to be seen to feel infinite
In your modest past, were you a lonely girl?
If only I could have cured your desperate bones
Don’t love your body over your friends
When the revolt’s over, prayer lives on.


When She Was Good


When I was young I could produce a numbness
That led many to believe that I was pure
The numbness slipped away when I was faced with you
Your world seemed well-acclaimed while mine seemed mediocre
You loved those slumber parties when you’d all lie down
With a kitchen full of cookies, you’d pray that life was true.


I Can


I can mutter eloquence like a millennial Dylan
Scribbling 31 nationwide hits in seven+ years
I can freestyle the urban envy of Lennon’s “Imagine”
Each of my previous works cited “Ray/Simon”
I can be a Grammy-approved post-grunge giant
Showing off less talent than a kindergarten wall
And while I dream of superiority, all I lack is effort.


Owl Eyes


When the owl can see no more
Shut not the works of the watchful sad believers
For when those who were criminals are now captains and chiefs
And that which was once accepted is now a crime
The words of the sages will be nowhere in sight
But on the bookshelves of our age and in the eyelids of the owl.


Night Prowl

It was just like those snotty kids freshman year
Who snuck out the lavatory windows
Who stargazed for hookups at 4 A.M. Saturday morning
Without anyone’s consent

They were on their own

So I crisscrossed between genuine night and dimly-lit cabin doors
And by the time I completed my unseen pedestrian ranting
And pounced from beyond the village to my vacant bunk
I knew only darkness lies before me when I prowl alone.




I am in the dusk of an organizational autumn
My art is scattered leaves
And the leaves often wander from the trunk of the tree

But when the new year dawns
I will be out of my autumn
And have prevailed into spring
Where I have all my leaves of knowledge
In my own binder, on my own tree.


Funeral (for my grandmother)


It wasn’t until you recited your camp experiences to mine
And you recited perfect Longfellow to me
That I knew you as more than an estranged yet loving relative
When I dug you tomb and I spoke toward you
Before tens of fellow mourners
I saw you reciting poems and rejoicing in your grandchildren
Somewhere without chronic pain.


Downtown on Christmas


This is the plaza which the shoppers avoid today
Which the shopkeepers neglect until tomorrow
This is the plaza where the Goth boys drink
Where the moviegoers bounce
And the only working man is the guard

Cars zoom past here without any thought
The films are all strangled by poinsettias
No people here know, or have known of this kid
Bored at five o’clock on a bench so cold
Yet all Christmas joy is absorbed as he waits.


Your Chasm

I’m standing on the cliff of your chasm
I fed you two long sturdy ropes
There’s nothing I can do because the lassos won’t reach you
The vultures will get to you first

Even if I wore my Batman suit
You would not see the Earth’s crust
As Batman is powerless
Without his trusty jet-black Beemer.


Syd (for my goldfish)

Syd plays dead more realistically than the smartest dog
As he lacks emotions, and appears to be fish food
When he’s on top

My fifth grade teacher told us to persevere like salmon on a current
Never to retreat, no matter how dense the wave

Though in the games of life and love
—Of contrasting sizes but of equal value
Like Fat Man and Little Boy—
I would rather be Syd than a salmon
Because I would rather live in loving hands.


On Angst

What can be said of that whining sinner, angst?
The fool dabbles with you in his evening literary stew
The wise one locks you in the temperance of his Squirrel Hill head
Who can say they have not shut their gates to your green-eyed face?
They’ll let you turn Valentine’s Day into a most-unhappy Halloween
Where everyone’s either a zombie or a ghost.


Sheltered in His Bivouac: Children’s Poems

January 1, 2012

Glove Song


I cannot write a love song

I’ve never been in love

But I can write a glove song

Since I own a pair of gloves

While the people like to hear

Ten songs about true love

I will teach them to appreciate

Ten songs about white gloves.




I’m not that good at tetherball

Or so my classmates say

But I play tetherball each day anyway

I dream of being Jefferson Shamp

The great American tetherball champ
He started out very weak and small

But through practice he grew strong and tall

And through practice he won at tetherball

And after I practice, I’ll step onto the court

One day like Shamp, I’ll win the sport.




Last night I saw my friend

He’s my favorite seagull

He’s without a single leg

So his name is Amputeagull


He showed me how to live

He showed me how he’s living

He’s got so little he can do

But he uses what he was given


He always exercises

He helps father some eggs

He’s so nice and happy

Though he doesn’t have his legs.


Great-Uncle Johnny’s Lunch


I ate lunch with Great-Uncle Johnny

He used to write in notebooks

Now that he’s an old man

What does he do?  He cooks


He eats no chicken, beef, or pork

He doesn’t like hot pizza

There’s sushi on his fork

Where are the ice cream treats?

And not one carrot but four beets?


Ray’s Tadpole


Ray caught a tadpole

Just so he could taste

The little amphibian

Inside his greedy face


Ray stopped catching tadpoles

But you all should note:

He woke up Sunday morning

With a bullfrog in his throat!


The Bonobo


You’re a happy human

I’m a sad old ape

You pig out on London Broil

I’ll try to find a grape

But I love it in the zoo

Being fed banana stew

I think you’d love it too!