Vermice poem.

Vermice's wrath is like hiccups;
it flutters in the buttercups.

Vermice's ire is like Lufrane;
it runs and then it runs again.

Vermice's mad is like Vermom's;
it scorns Verdad but never harms.

Vermice's anger is like mine;
its good or bad, but never fine.

Sandwich

Waiting for a veal parmesan sandwich.

Overcome with anticipation.

I drum my fingers while I wait.

It will probably be disappointing.

It arrives.

It’s not disappointing.

It is a delicious expression of everything good.

Bread.

Cheese.

Sauce.

Meat.

I am rejuvenated.

Invigorated.

Life is a joy.

For me.

For the baby cow?

Not so much.

John Keats, Trash Blasters

Closely-orbiting O'Keefe satellite Lee B recently recommended I read a Keats poem about fall, so I did and then I decided to write a poem. I'm hoping it will help me exorcise out of my brain some words and stuff that I have trouble not thinking about. Enjoy.

The poem:

Negative zone daemonic hellscape riven with darkly pupating fist-smasher insectoid ravening biscuit-whifflers, bustling with eleven elven men stabbing your soul drinking the lemon-squinted drubble drink pouring out of your eyes, landing on a pad of green green grasses, waving in the windy wind while your white wallephant wails for whiskered wandering witch warrens, teeming with troubled toe tasters. Sudden shock, bursting your brain, washing your spectral dream place with acidic slime molds, seeping into every nook and cracky cranny, fusing your space holes free of webbed molecule breathing hostile bandit crafters, caustic sportsmen hammering away at the dogs of war, whipping away at the horses of sin, thrashing away at the donkeys of disdain, erasing the last remnants of spectral final tornado pulsars, turbid washboard eclipse spaniard potion doctor fraught pastor last distracting trash blaster stratus flashes burning your iris, papyrus inscribed with the diets of pirates.

Observe the Hand Closed

Rescued from eternal obscurity, mixed into a page of notes from a Soviet History class from 3 years ago, while unpacking boxes.


Observe the hand closed:
Pointer like an eye shut,
Fingers like puppies in a bed,
Thumb like a hand over the eyes,
Nails like faces trying to hide,
Knuckles an arched back.
Pinky, the cold one, nuzzling in,
never gets a better spot. 

Fall: Second study.