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Donald Davidson
on the defense of tradition
I turned my head
away from Her so I could listen

something rings true
but fails at the feet of Grace
absolute in its power
absolut Face

about face
timeless walkability
choice cut, dry heave
abandoned supermarket sleeves

chinstrap beard mentality
casual friday every day
hippies done won
but I'll be damned if the Dark One's
gone

supplanting Poem for
homoeros
Bucks Unlimited
tattoos of sparrows

ripped from the earth
and dipped in fondue
forever
Xtreme Dante
undashing, clever

the robot lawnmower
spake to the robot
harvester:
at least there's no more
yip yap a botherin' Her

instead the cold cleaves
to discs, and dusks empty
of men, REAL MEN
and farmers' daughters aplenty

ghost dog growling
middle of the night
people shouting!

it's a white person fight

crying slowly
chrome to the bone
ding dong ditching
cell phone on rome

charles horse
on my good leg
towards Christmas
I never beg

found a button
under the root
pressed that shit
made a sound, a poot

Sophocles
waking up dead
turtle doves smiling
because:
69, head.

Fraternoster

Of tea and pipe,
briefly to booze
in scenes I write
in scenes I snooze

a vaguery of ecstasy
what's a rave?
a train punk's destiny
as with Neal, I crave

the midnight hour
a soulful shift
from fourth to third
a verdant rift

between the folds
of frontal lobes
and in the cache
of my short soul

I long for you-a,
my supple God
I seek you out
on dusty sod

two tracks appear
in neck of woods
one spotted bare,
one interviewed

a silly thing
the mass of men
heads jolting forth
and back again

denying too,
the validity
of penchants for
virginity

of mind and body
of style and grace,
a burial cloth,
bears your face

the Jesus 'tod
of Burzum sinks
into the hand,
lottery brink

in lonely times
and simpler ones,
my race (be run)
a mask undone

corpse paint on dogs
and moonlit bogs,
revelry in dreambuilt
smog

the face of doom
is nigh, is nigh
infernal womb
for those to decry

and we all wept
after the sixth
hail mary said,
a candle, lit

a jaunty hat
built of dried straw;
you're from Nashville?
land of Hee-Haw

jumping jack flash
and a gnostic bumpkin,
flashlights on phones
for battered sump pans

and twisted metals
unto the petals
of this ripe Iris,
church bulletins

written in Papyrus.

Omen Omen Omen Omen,
have you vexed a door to open?
you are spilt out on the tarpin
you are split by vegan star-men

Jingle, jangle, jingle, jangle,
who is that, in whom you tangle?
gold-watched yankee under rose colored Kangol?
a pierced nip wildebeast that you must wrangle!

Pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal,
Sampson strength with each plucked petal
O! cross-eyed sculptor in to black metal
you've thrown the war, and yawned the battle

Terror, terror, terror, terror,
A child is born into a New Era
green t-shirt with Che Guevara
unto you, a child named Sara

Cryful cryful cryful cryful
the cursed mark of Cane's disciple
today's wages, tomorrow's rifle
he hates his daddy, "Mr. Trifle"

Give us this day our daily mosh
I think I'll poop in the shoes at Posh
when you ride alone, you ride with Gosh
prove to yourself that you're not lost!

What are the collars
of our shirts for
but to hold
back
the
burst

but a doubly insular
and keen witness
to our sweet
noggins
top
our
heads

those blues get
us down
and melt
obligation
to keep
a methodical
still
going

rock and roll?
the duress,
the exhaltation
the fine
release,
the mist

the spirit we mock
is the spirit
that moves
our bodies
to work

apropoganda

The sorority girl gasped
"no!"
"he's so... what a jerk!"
and the sky ripped in two
and down came the rain
dripping from the Land's End
logo
on
to

a bum tinkering
and toying
with the idea of Goebbel;
you know,
the arms stretched forth,
a sea - an inside-out man

and the affection
his own father jettisoned
for a troubled,
turncoat
voyage
across
the
Atlantic

to a strange name:
Soddy-Daisy

The fields are alive
with the sound of music

Bald Mountain

I was at the Pebble Beach Concours de Elegance
and my mind was blown
by the private reserve upon
which so few lived
in the hills outside of Monterey

the perfect grass and the perfect jug band
were perfectly positioned
near the symetrical splay of Hors d'oeuvre
in the aromatic nestle of some valley
with little shrubs like those on my
uncle's train set diorama

A heart felt hello to my father's gay friends
from far away lands
and as they sized me up
I shifted the subject of conversation
from that of prowess
to that of progeny, progress
and the man's Peking to Paris adventure
in a 1938 something or other

and I wandered off to the third coffee
of the evening
and my mind wandered off to a darkened Broadway
where I held her hand but it wasn't quite right

and then my thoughts turned to my
new love
the round-faced girl whose eyes
are cool pools of aquamarine
flanked by the fairest, milkiest skin

and I made a noise that I thought
a baby dinosaur might make
and I smiled