don’t panic
DON’T PANIC!
DON’T PANIC!!!

those words,
though said in
mantra verse,
lose their
reassuring value
when not
accompanied by:
glittering letters
on a shiny
red background

maple leaves
strewn across brick porches
wooden rocking chairs a’creekin
brats on the grill
beer in my hand
a tornado warning

the cold preceeding torrential
rainfall and seagulls flying by the
wind of the great lakes

my german-wisconsin heritage
maple leaves and all

past evening
simple words
pretty verse

an orange slide
with graffiti: NIGGA, BITCH–
following you down.

late nights no longer
with friends or beer
tonight i nurse not a pipe
but a baby
perhaps for hours

to lull us to sleep
people say ‘just yesterday
i was so young’

so sad to think.
24 with
back problems
four crowns (on teeth,
not the kind with diamonds
embedded, perfectly placed
on heads of royalty)

but the rest is more of a joy
than anyone had prepared me
for.

juan is the loneliest spaniard that you’ll ever do
tito can be as lonely as juan
he is the loneliest spaniard since the spaniard juan
juan is the loneliest…
juan is the loneliest…
juan is the loneliest spaniard that you’ll ever do

written by the light of a candle
in an attic in some country home
indeed it was beside a lake
by a writer destined not to be published
until long after her death

and her pen moved with the candle
every movement dictated by the wind
scribbled furiously in olde english
on what could only be called parchment

the family downstairs could not understand
her desire to write, could not understand
the words she would now write about
the life it took to live oppressed the way
only a white woman can

and words written down, yes! one more
perfect allusion to homer, and yet another
to shakespeare. sweat dripping from her brow
now as the pen moves faster and faster

no need to correct mistakes unmade
a perfect hand, one more perfect verse
and as she stands with arms raised high
a smile protrudes from her unwrinkled face
perfect – she screams in her head
the best poem in the world

today i found it, written in sweat and tears
nearly one hundred fifty years after its composition
and as my eyes moved across the page
back and forth like a candle in the wind
i rose, raised my hands and a smile came
to my bearded chin

emily, you’ve done it again.
the best poem in the world
i have to find my gilligan’s album so i can
sing it to that tune….

so sit right down and read a poem
a poem by emily dick
sung to the tune of gilligans
they always make me sick

virile and patient i live at best half a life: choose or not I prefer to feel than to empathize

stumbling throughout and

twitching past The World i dream i know I exist

i wake and

zone in My World lightly as to not let

my body on that i’ve abandoned it to be

humiliated and

tough out what I’m not sure, but must be life:

the medium Worlds communicate

ed double is my good friend
i’m with him at least thrice per day
he talks too much at the table
but i feel much better that way – mucho bettero

when ed chews gum after lunch
he sticks to only one brand
double double ed double
always has some in his hand – or pocket

when ed goes away i get upset
he knows how to make me mad
digestion is so important
he’s a good friend to have – like rhyme or rhythm

last weekend ed went on vacation
and left me behind to eat solo
i had jalapenos, cheese, and a carrot
i ate and i ate until fullo – always a bad decision

i miss you ed double i need you
dont you ever leave me again
or i’ll ship you off to see merck
where you’re whole new life will begin – in small pills you’ll be

to dance or not
is never at question
for by standing on the wall
one cannot expect to do it

try – we must to get our backs
up off the wall
please, converse with me

run up to it, sit down
right on top of it

run up to it, sit down
right on top of it

we cannot expect to ever
pull it off if we never get out
of our comfort zone
chances, we must take
or our backs might stayed glued
to the wall

all of the people were audibly
saying…

run up to it, sit down
right on top of it

The thin leather strips

Surround my hand, protecting,

Are stronger when soft.

Father, ship me back to the heaven’s factory
I am not well made,
my alter ego is a creep in the dark
my shell need a bit of fixing
my soul leaks and a drought is a comin’

father Jean speaks of a great plan for every life
but how can i trust the words of a man who
softly cries alone in a confessional?
I see, feel no plan
My drunk father drove his way to the heavens, and
took with him a young teen who was standing on the crosswalk
“There is no heaven for alcoholics and
there is no haven for your mother”, my aunt tells me.
My mother used barbiturates to smuggle my six year old self to heaven
my heart stopped for a while but in the end
she went without me.

Father, I’m not looking for a quick refund
I’ve got no oil to keep grime and rust away
I’m running empty
so please
ship me up above
ship me back anew

delicious beer
on sale for only
eleven dollars

I’m
callow scum on the floor of the world
mellow bum on the parking lot

I have been
chewed and spit out
worn and thrown away

I was
someone’s precious child
yesterday’s bloom and shiny star

but I will never be again,
forever.