Tag Archive: poems

Two burritos appeared on a sign board,

And pretty sure I could eat only one

And be left unsickened, long I stood

And looked on for as long as I could

To the trays that they were served upon.


I saw the large, saucy Macho Beef,

And having perhaps the greater fame,

Since it was quite massive and flaunted meat;

While the weirder Tropical Treat

Had nuts and fruits that might be lame.


And both that evening temptingly lay

In long trays with a paper sack.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

And knowing how tray leads on to tray,

I doubted not I would often come back.


I shall tell this one day with a sigh

By some ruined Mexican fence:

Two burritos appeared on a board, and, yeah —

I took the one less frequently tried,

And that has made all the difference.


We interrupt this burrito

We interrupt this burrito

to bring you a chicken with no ulterior motive

luxuriating in a ravine where the leftover Panda

rots in the sunset.

When a headless mole makes the effort,

sets up a marmoset playground with fabricated logs

and collects porcelain bras from exotic countries,

the discriminating Teutophile adjusts his vest and

combs his mustache: incommensurable blocks of cheese,

floating above the intersection, surprisingly petrified,

make their own plans when day care is condemned.

Just as Cousin Rollo failed with his omelet,

and raised a race of rats that developed fears of seedlings,

Maxine will tear apart each taquito, shred by shred,

until she has conquered her final cuisine.

When you leave Sears at midnight

Turn off the lights for the mongoose

And luxuriate in a papaya tea

The gypsy woman with the eyeliner

Will wait in the boxcar

Undeterred by sheriffs

And dental assistants

Where the slides of her youth betrayed a razor

A man with rollerblade sides

Who took too long to appreciate her gum

These are the voyages of a girl who takes trips

Where the beaches are less photogenic

Than the steel folds of your lost hometown

And the desiccated potatoes of Mrs. Lindstrom

Who knew more about driveways than you ever will.

When you can’t live up to your license plate

and your taco’s the color of burnt sponge,

your subscription to Beard Man’s expired,

and stray women in Kansas unfriend you

the empty Cheeto bag holds no response,

the deflated roadside doughnut gapes in vain,

no two red vagrants lean at the same stance

and small mammals expose drab rearward views,

the state is not the low road that you know

but another with less yellow and more stone

exposing legless fish to winter sun

and flattening viable cops to crumbs.

And then    it was ten-fifty-seven

When her man stumbled through the door

Repeating the paper towel, recasting the ashtrays and counting all the daughters.

“Is it for the lack of a moon that you followed me

where the parked cars… Wait, is that the latest issue of American Male?”


But it was her lost moon,

the toothpaste on the cabinet and the

discount beer that splayed around.


He wasn’t the only prone guy she’d found,

Only the latest.  With a shirt to match his intelligence

And that old rabbit trick that no one enjoyed.


“Don’t brush that mustache.”  She threw her bottle on the floor.

“I like them Western.”

My Bad Poetry #15

I took a road trip into your girlfriend’s mind

Where I found hot sauce dripping

on all the potato burritos.

She has harangues she hasn’t even finished,

peppers she’s pelting you with in her head.

Like other waitresses, she’s dressed in aluminum colored skirts

She contains jewelry pilfered from Peruvian thrift shops.

Perched above the giant hamburger, she gazes down,

Her peppermint lipstick taunting you.

“I have four kinds of pickle,” she chants,

in that sing-song waitress way

as though twirling an invisible tassel.

She totes up her bubblegum achievements for the day

She rides into a new Arizona,

her carriages decoratively perforated.

“Would you like a side of sauerkraut?” she purrs,

knowing you’re allergic to German vegetables.

“And let’s finish that off with an eggnog milkshake.”

My Bad Poetry #14

The Smell of Poetry


Is that bacon burning in the frying pan?

No, dude, that’s the smell of my new poem.

It smells like words, searing in your brain grease

Droplets of chunky metaphor fat dripping through your neurons.

Can you get a slice of fat-free turkey bacon instead?

No.  These are gristle-packed, thrumming sizzling phrase strips

Globules glistening with dense significations, marbled murkiness.

This poem smells worse than an overheated, oil-soaked carburetor?

Is that what you said?

Some people have useless noses.

Someone left a dainty mango slice on the placemat.

They must’ve mistaken it for a haiku.




Meanwhile, the grease is pooling on the kitchen floor, oozing into coagulations of truth.


Four New Emily Dickinson Poems


Fuzzy tiny spider–

Walking on my– stove –

If you crawl into time–

Will they base an oatmeal flavor on you?



Because I found a – coffin-

And chiseled it – with craft-

I have no time for sewing-

And am not a big fan of Home Depot.



I walked across- my simple room-

And walked across-  again  –

And before the world could stop me-

I had reduced my waist size by two inches



I sometimes speak – with tulips

Or converse – with the ferns

And — what they often tell me

Is – try to find a good Fern-English dictionary.

My Bad Poetry, Nos. 6-10


I gave you the chicken of my dreams

But you just gave me maize.

I dressed him with fine poultry gloves

And stared at him for days.

I strutted through the barnyard

And wore my blackest cloaks –

But you just read St. Augustine

And made medieval jokes.


The Pope who kissed my mother

Was much fatter than the other

Who tittered in faded robes

While the stout one fondled her earlobes.


Burning down the house

I forgot about her blouse

That I left by the fire parade

With the bowling ball charade.

But afterward, the cops

With their integrated crops

Were able to entangle

The fingernail’s angle.

I gave them forty bucks

And a Sirloin Duck Deluxe.


I once dated a shirtless raccoon

Who managed a drink-free saloon

He ran out of peanuts

And ordered three grilled mutts

But his jukebox did not have the tune.


“I’m going to copyright your head,”

Warned the mayor,

Pointing the gun at the cold cuts.

I tiptoed and got him in a headlock.

Staggering, he sputtered three words:

“Meat.  Rice.  Poultry.”

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My Bad Poetry, Nos. 1-5

# 1

I won some erotic pottery

In the California state lottery

But when I used it to mix Mai Tais

The result was really watery.





Whoever cares about


a dead dull aardvark


Glazed with wood varnish


In the gutter next to a Big Mac wrapper?





This one goes out to all the girls in Texas

Who wrestle with cows and eat snakes for breakfast

And tromp yellow roses with their steel-toed boots

And don’t got to IHOP for the fresh fruit pancake specials.


Girls who look the other way when they drive by the Sears

Put guns in their drawers and shots in their beers

And spit out the window at dead armadillos

And sleep in a bed without sheets or duvet covers.



Rhubarb!  Rhubarb!

Does anyone know your ecstasy as I?

Vegetable of the planets –

Serious and unadorned.

A fly in a carriage, or a toad on a tombstone

Cannot taste as good as you.




Don’t bother to call my daughter

My sister-in-law’s a lot hotter

She’s got lips for miles

And Crocs in three styles

And looks great in those thongs that I bought her.