Sticky Verse

This is a “Spring” training site to stretch my AA versification skills in preparation to post a poem a day during all of April. That’s right neighbor, the “cruellest month” is upon us. And NaPoWriMo has a tendency to kick my ass.

But not this year. I’m centered and concentrated, all about the gist and the zeroing-in, the game within the game, and leaving it all on the field until that last number two pencil flat out dies.

So to that endeavor, this post will be populated with some past “glory day” efforts, as well as a bevy of the new and not quite ready. Then steady as she goes, ‘cause who knows, this year, I just might scrawl that requisite number. And wouldn’t that be novel.


now off to get the first bourbon of the day. all part of that training workout, you understand


Exemplar With A Due Date

I’ve out-sourced
the well being
of my immortal
to a Bible
in Biloxi

She Church goes Bible Studies
beseeches petitions
hand- wrings
Psalm sings
refrains from vice
dice rock and roll
dancing and ogling
sisters in the city
come spring

And all in my name
for decades and with guarantee
this Bible
in Biloxi
initially billed me
about a year ago
now a missive
just this morning
she will charge me
for the care
and concern
of my immortal


Off Book

I out-sourced
my dreams
at age fourteen

I was wise
for my years
or just doomed…

I prefer
to think
the former
but willing
to split
the difference
as any self-respecting
odds player

but die-cast
a random casting
call and
all actors play
to type
and certain
early curtain
for any character
that goes
off script

*Off Book
The term for the stage when the performer has his or her lines memorized


“But You Don’t Speak Spanish,” she said.

“Date Two”

Before after dinner coffee
between Tecate and Tequila
I would translate for Susan
the spanish songs playing

I told her

unlike the menu
this music is
more mix-tape
a mistake to parse
verse or individual song

and the lyrics suggest
a libretto that goes on forever
could take weeks,
even years,
to truly appreciate


I Wish Brian Wilson Had Just Gone Home

Rumor, myth, history, half-truth, fact or whatever…on the afternoon of the day JFK was assassinated, Brian Wilson was schedule to lay down some everybody into the pool and dance type Beach Boy tracks. He didn’t do that stuff.

Brian Wilson and Mike Love wrote the “Warmth Of The Sun.” This music haunted me at first listen. Continues to do so. Not so much the song, not to diss the lyricist, Mr Love, but the melancholia in Wilson’s music as reflected by subtle chord and melodic reversals, stunned me as a kid. And I swear, right there, right then I knew Wilson was a genius and that popular music had been changed forever.

Gush Gush, get on with the poem.

I Wish Brian Wilson Had Just Gone Home

After Pet Sounds and Caroline No
it was all down to ground round
for me

Even when Lester Bangs
bragged Holland was Bach
and Rick James backhanded
‘bout that Psychedelic Barber
Shop Quartet…
well, how up town can
one be

My trouble
the trouble
of the
right here
in River City
is all were too quick
to trombone those
dusty tones of
and suggest it
all a coup
of low-brow
high speed
car culture
to gear down
to rev up
a surfer girl’s
bikini clad
bottom end
to add to
the bottom line
of the then Big Three

Fun Fun Fun

But no self respecting
self made capitalist
would be caught in
the board room
adjusting his sock
garters while
listening to,
“The Warmth Of The Sun”

recognizing the discord
in those triplets
understanding the futility
in the harmony

But Smile

Never Mind

Surfs Up



It’s not the twilight
of memory
that worries me

or the foot speed
that pratfalls
at a canter

nor the Heave Ho
effort for so paltry
a pulmonary response

It’s that the degradation
isn’t singular


It’s shared

She can’t lie. I’d

But her eyes break faith.

I am the burden.

Her true
and well


Repost From: Day 8 NaPoWriMo 2013


Cross Walk

Opting out is not the opposite
of opting in
switch simple like a toggle
nor boisterous as a mission

the rank and file is not
what I parade against
I’m pedestrian in my
to jaywalk the conceits
of hoi polloi

dead in the tracks
of that Janus divvy
equal parts facing
continuum or

if not grave
crossing against
the light



Somewhere someone plans
a spring offensive
somewhere someone young
will die
the old will be bled
and babies force marched
through a warmer gentler

Where bombs will concuss
bullets bloom
and snipers shape shift with
sudden green shoots

and headlines will seek
an approbate font

as the front opens
winter’s history revised

A Repost From *****Day Two NaPoWriMo April 2013