Experimental Poems


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.


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