The Last Telegram
Waking up. STOP.
Putting on slippers. STOP.
Making coffee. STOP.
Looking for newspaper. STOP.
Found newspaper. STOP.
Drinking coffee. STOP.
Head hurts. STOP.
Head really hurts. STOP.
Trouble breathing. STOP.
Where is Heimlich? STOP.
Feeling better. STOP.
Call off Heimlich. STOP.
Two eggs over medium. STOP.
That’s better. STOP.
Turning on TV. STOP.
Oh, fuck! STOP.
Head hurts. STOP.
Stop. STOP.
Turning off TV. STOP.
That’s better. STOP.
Going for walk. STOP.
Love the weather. STOP.
Write if you get work. STOP.
an american tragedy (from the headlines)
over 100 patients potentially infected
obama counters violent extremists
with extremists
giuliani: obama doesn't love america
vanilla ice released from custody
bruins reach new rock bottom
another star in the solar system
when humans first spread from africa
space to grow
space to grow
-------------------------------------
the magna carta, baby
blowing the lid off
the divine right of kings
the way magma
blows the head off a volcano
act on the artistic impulse
impulsively
act on the artistic impulse
impulsively
fastly quickly
just make something up
shoot the moving target
from the hip
but there was a problem
we shoulda looked at the map
but there was a problem
we shoulda looked at the map
first
the end of the world
could be a lot of fun
the end of the world
could be a lot of fun
if you would just let it
let it happen
---------------------
now i am an expert
a cognoscente connoiseur
a smooth sommelier
i have tasted wines
in california
i liked all of them
______________________________________________
middle of the night
rumbling freight train shakes the earth
whistle sounds like light
______________________________________________
why don’t we take up quilting?
the question has been asked:
why don’t we take up quilting?
and one possible answer is
we really should
the benefits are many
the sewing machine’s smooth
clicketyclick
warms a winter night
clicketyclick
tapping the foot pedal
laying down rhythmic stitches
slow like a slow dance
pedal to the metal on the straightaways
zooming like a threaded V-8
we could make murals
fabricate geometries of
frost or cheesecake or full, voluptuous ripe melons
with little triangles cut
from the legs of well worn blue jeans
(who knows what went on in there)
not that denim or melons gotta be blue
but you would get the idea
and want to reach for it
like bearded mountain grandmas
we would quilt fervently, quaintily, and manlily
quilt unto the cows, quilt until they come home
when the moon goes down for good and
the sun eclipses itself
why don’t we take up quilting?
______________________________________________
Go Figure
what’s the dates on these figs?
go figure
how many figs in a hectare?
go figure out
what in the fig
is a hectare
then we can figure
out the fig in ure figure
but wait,
how can you figure
the word figure
applies to both numbers
and the shape of B. Bardot?
we need to figure this out
maybe this will help:
- Bardot!
36-20-35 figuratively
go figure
that curvy figure
these figs are so good
I hafta eat another
but what does that mean?
is that what a fig meant?
o figment of a fig
you render me
the pigment of a pig
so I gotta eat another
no I want six
six figs in one mouth
this mouth right here
six all at once
cheeks bulging like piglets
eating figlets
or giblets
chewing chiclets
like chocolate
chocolate-dipped figs
______________________________________________
Running Outa Road Paint
the job sounded easy:
“just one white stripe on U.S. 50,
our truck, you buy the paint”
it musta been the new hard times
answering too quickly,
“sure, no problem”
but there was a problem
we shoulda looked at the map
first
U.S. Highway 50
starts in Ocean fuckin’ City, Maryland
stops in Sacra fuckin’ Mento, California
one white stripe
one-eighth inch thick
three long thousand miles long
how many gallons is 3000 miles?
the guy at the road paint store
says thirteen hundred seventy-seven
but he was just guessin’
guessin’
thirteen hundred seventy-seven
is a good number, spoken with conviction
we say “sure, no problem”
and it was no problem
to run outa road paint
in Jefferson fuckin’ City, Missouri
the stripe stopped smack
in front
of the one state fuckin’ capitol
nobody’s ever heard of
until they run outa road paint
we park on this bluff
above the Missouri River
taking it in, stripe or no stripe
waiting for more road paint
not waiting for more road paint
looking upstream
______________________________________________
we are embers
tracing flame
across the arc
that made us from flame
fire in the sky
fire in the belly
fire in the eye
hot in a cool universe
______________________________________________
11 / 13
double prime numbers
make the date today
eleven
thirteen
prime
day
autumn
orange
blue
misty chilly
solstice
approaching
______________________________________________
Translated from the Estonian
(That's the title)
Northern Estonian To Be Exact
a boy named sue just spread the word around
I want you with blue suede shoes
feed your head with rocky raccoons
see how it flies like lucy in the
shine on you crazy diamond
how do we know these lyrics?
the northern lights did it to us
the borealis a’roaring through our brains
or maybe it was the reindeer moaning on the tundra
or maybe a needle jabbed the groove
spinning in the ice
broadcasting chill waves in the deep chill
paint it black, angie baby, like a rolling stone
we sing tunes in our knees
we race with the melodies
we are great runners, groovin’
sprinting through long arctic tunnels
searching for the lost chord
______________________________________________
waitress from heaven
yes! I'm ready to order . . .
i’ll have the grapes and wine special
with some sleep and a cool pillow
an aloe-and-sunburn aperitif
for dessert i’ll have an island
with palm trees and sand
for my entrée please give me a line
that’ll work on you
and i’ll take that line to go
to go with you after dinner
yes everything is divine
no i don’t want the bill
just give me some wings
and a ride on the sky
Canoe Poem #4
if all the while you stood
and snored
thru cavalcades and drums
and stared the passing hours
into
a steady background hum
then you might be missed
by all the gifts just waiting
to collide with you
should you come awake
snapped to, startled clear
then
do not exhort yourself,
don't pause in reflection
stay peeled
The time it takes to move
from your mind to you
is an instant
the difference is not of kind
or degree but dimension
it can only be extended by
ignorance
don't
think about it, it'll last longer that way
by Matt Rosenberger
______________________________________________
Canoe Poem #3
in the middle of the river the country kid stands on a rock
sipping a beer with the rapids
curling around him
its 1999 and his hair is cut
shock red
in between sips he tounges
the new stud in his lip
he sticks his thumb in the
bottle and launches his tattoos
into the pool below
its 1999 and some things
never change
(row your boat, Mary Lee
Mary Lee, row your boat to me
and I'll dream you gently
upon my life
gently down the stream)
by Matt Rosenberger
by Matt Rosenberger
Canoe Poem #2
fluid flux flummoxed
flat water found out and
roiled
turned towards intuitive
turmoil
tumescent turbulence tumbling
over
eddy oh eddy oh eddy line
o'mine
pine trees with poop on the
roots
gap-toothed wonders
skinnydipping
with menthol kools in
clenched lips
hard chines, shoals
tumblehomed
spooked trout about dusk
sounds something like this
but
its got an indian name
and there's an arrow in my
head
pointed upstream
drawn to aim by magnetic me
not quite the "real
me"
always slightly to the light
from the truth as I perceive it
by Matt Rosenberger
______________________________________________
Canoe Poem #1
on the river on a rock
this head turns
green trees sprout on my
retina
down a bit
white water aerosols off my
skin
at each and every moment
the universe is precisely
arranged
to take you into account
every molecule, opinion
each quantum spurt of
resistance and charm
calibrated to your presence
this moment rocks cuz you're
aware of it
the others rock on
regardless in the river
by Matt Rosenberger
______________________________________________
Estate Sale
(Thank You, Veronica)
the estate sale hobby is one I never imagined –
at first try, it's just an excuse to cruise
cruise to the far corners of this new old town
and cruise into homes without homebodies
fun to cringe at baby blue shag carpeting shagging oak floors
or to smirk at the crappy taste that money lathers
into cramped hallways, sad bedrooms and giant attics
or to pause in awe at a slice of perfection and
cherish it now the way the recently departed cherished it then
and every now and then at an estate sale . . .
. . . a choice trophy fits home and budget and home it goes
to grace a new old room in our new old home
stud it with color, comfort, craft and curves
our new old home, built the year Mom was born
one century ago, and now – old estates live on here
in new ways, in new old time
by Jonathan Marcus, rocking in a chair of unknown provenance
______________________________________________
math versus a natural swing
i love baseball but my real love
is higher mathematics
competitive and bloodthirsty
where square roots,
squeeze plays and
Fibonacci world series
square off
against cold fusion,
slugging percentage
strike outs
steals and
suicide squeezes
go ahead
do the higher math
smack fungoes to centerfield
stretch a double
into a quadratic equation
theoretical calculus and dead reckoning
savagely intuitive
extremely linear
a highbrow swing game
high cheese, fast twitch peptides
burning the inside corner
faster than the math
of physicists and sabermetricians
it’s complex, it’s simple,
it’s quick but your head
spins like sunshine and space
money balls fly into the gap
left centerfield
weird other worldly equations
hidden in box scores
math versus a natural swing
circles squared
equal and opposite thermodynamics
money times calories
equals effort
and good intentions
gentlemen, start your resumes
grab your throbbing paychecks
sing for your net worth
______________________________________________
O, Turnberry!
Tom Watson just made the cut at the British Open - at age 64, the oldest golfer ever to do so. Five years ago, at age (one moment, hmm, 64 minus 5 is...) 59, he was poised over an 8 foot putt on the 18th and final hole at Turnberry, one of the oldest and most venerated venues of the Open. Make it and he wins. That putt was the culmination of an extraordinary four day run which saw him turn back time to lead a field of world class players fully a generation younger, all vying for one of golf's most treasured trophies. He had won the Claret Jug as a much younger man, but this was a miraculous moment - make the putt, and he becomes the oldest player ever to win this or any other major tournament, by a long shot. This poem was written by Whirled HQ in the aftermath, and is reposted here in honor of his making the cut in 2014. It is best read out loud, in one's best Scottish brogue.
O turnberry ye hardy hunk of tortured scottish turf
the wind and sea and weather pound thy earth
like fists of duffers flailing
O turnberry ye thirsty sponge for tears and blood
blood of fools, blood of kings, blood of bogeyed holes
blood seeped and supple in your dirt
O turnberry your claws sunk deep in the shallows of the outer Firth of Clyde
you've your own moon, turnberry, a half farthing rising in the pounding sea
we call it the Ailsa Craig, fat and edged in the sinking sun
O Turnberry your winds do twist and thrash and overturn
laughing at gravity herself
tossing a dimpled ball on a celtic whim
O merciless Turnberry, ye spiteful course
tom watson slashes through your puzzled links
tom watson aged 59 stands atop turnberry aged eons
O Turnberry summoning gales of inevitability
the odds stacked against goodness and mercy and truth of heart
favoring the brutal sea, the lumpy heaving foam-frothed sea
O Turnberry ye exquisite Scottish poison
poised on the 18th hole, old tom watson needs an 8 foot putt
to win the Claret Jug and eternity, immune to wind and war
O Turnberry! Old Tom Watson!
good god man, it's an eight foot putt to immortality
gird thy loins, stroke true, the cup is in your grasp!
O good god, turnberry, did you rise in green envy?
brook naught that's straight and true?
Turnberry
reserves immortality for
Turnberry
by the boy poets, flailing in ecstatic denial
______________________________________________
They made us write a poem using any of the following words:
amber cloven beaten grating bump shift craven solicit ready mad leave left crazy shift frog snake eyes flake inner mind over under vague nebulous hazy gauzy cleave verboten misbegotten rage slashes grievously across a golf ball crafty left hander buzzard manhole shithole labyrinth marathon rubbish beaver strawberry mind fink enthrall compose radish verboten syntactical navel naval switchboard flog monstrosity garbage posthumorously harridan pneumatic vixen jaded razored buttery ragged corruptible veal scoundrel ambient polar vortex mythology flamboyant summery fetch rampant plebeian ambidextrous unicycle unbidden
. . . so we wrote two.
Poem #1
eyes gauzy
crafty left hander
strawberry beaver
verboten vague buttery
polar vortex
jaded razored radish
ambient veal ready
snake eyes shift
nebulous shithole
ambient scoundrel
unbidden, rampant
flamboyant inner raven
slashes grievously across
veal garbage
mad mind fink
marathon grating
Poem #2
the summery nebulous
polar vortex
unicycled unbidden
across the naval switchboard
the plebeian flakes,
all jaded and craven
fetch misbegotten rage
buzzards enthrall
the razored radish
vixens cleave
to the strawberry labyrinth
___________________________________________________________
Office Politics
that's me on the fortieth floor
second window from the left
peering out at nothing in particular
I used my personal politcial power
to get a window office
to see the sun, see other buildings
see people scrambling below
people glad to finally see the sun, any sun
locked within a nippy, chilly, over cooled cubicle
worse than the blackest hole of Calcutta
(except for the cold)
worse than The Snake Pit. Remember the movie?
where Olivia de Havilland found herself
in an insane asylum
and couldn't remember how she got there
caught up in the bureaucracy of the institution
the regimentation of the staff
some brutal and ignorant
a few kindhearted
most just killing time
cubicle time
___________________________________________________________
The Staging Area
what’s missing in your life
is a good and proper staging area
don’t just take clothes out of the dryer
fold ‘em and put ‘em away
that’s for losers
they belong in a good and proper staging area
an interim area, so to speak, where they lay
waiting for a drawer or closet
sometimes the wait is very long
we, the royal we, wouldn’t be where we are today
without a staging area
to buffer the friction between
a machine and a closet
between the known and the unknown
earth and sky
action and inaction
and those places in between
like inertia, nebraska
torpor, maine
languor, ohio
keg, georgia
now and then
and apathy, texas
buffer yourself, my good man
in a good and proper staging area
it will temper your quills
and hip-ta-phi your Christmas music
___________________________________________________________
Paint, Ink
Paint, Ink:
siblings
weirdly worth more
to civilization
than gold
Paint, Ink:
liquid siblings
hand and brush
touch and breath
attention is physical
the liquid dries
proof remains
___________________________________________________________
i have a great idea for a movie
opening scene everybody would die except
just two or three would survive, to live
gruesomely scabby yet riveting lives
the survivors would have cleft chins
and perfect breasts that heave on command
or off
and they, the stars, the beautiful stars
would repopulate the earth in 90 minutes
make it a better place for kids and golden retrievers
the movie crests into naked euphoria
in the first two seconds
when bill o’reilly explodes in a deluge of magma
that has surged up from the earth’s core
directly into fox studios
the remaining eighty-eight minutes
with the movie’s perfect pacing
of cliffhanger rescues followed by frenzied fucking
feature nancy grace, the former prosecutor
whose southern accent
with its bitter yet come hither edge
makes me and all other cinematic
dorky ass viewers of cable tv cringe
and lust mightily at the same time
her full lips feverish and shiny
her open thighs ready to receive
the burning priapus of the sub-plot
anyway i digress from my movie idea
of the people who recopulate the world
and for a brief time live happily, so happy
in utah, where the mormons used to practice posture
before my movie sent them all to kingdom come
in the denouement, just before the climax
a really horrible thing happens, finally
after reams of crazy deaths and ecstatic couplings
but strangely, it seems rightly horrible
you might even say – apropos of
all the things, the death, the life
the well-hung dialogue, the rippling tears
the crippling laughter laced in the sacral bone
the very emulsion of the film itself
all melting together – beguilingly
a strange comic relief, a last straw
in the unending beverage that is my movie
opening scene everybody would die except
just two or three would survive, to live
gruesomely scabby yet riveting lives
the survivors would have cleft chins
and perfect breasts that heave on command
or off
and they, the stars, the beautiful stars
would repopulate the earth in 90 minutes
make it a better place for kids and golden retrievers
the movie crests into naked euphoria
in the first two seconds
when bill o’reilly explodes in a deluge of magma
that has surged up from the earth’s core
directly into fox studios
the remaining eighty-eight minutes
with the movie’s perfect pacing
of cliffhanger rescues followed by frenzied fucking
feature nancy grace, the former prosecutor
whose southern accent
with its bitter yet come hither edge
makes me and all other cinematic
dorky ass viewers of cable tv cringe
and lust mightily at the same time
her full lips feverish and shiny
her open thighs ready to receive
the burning priapus of the sub-plot
anyway i digress from my movie idea
of the people who recopulate the world
and for a brief time live happily, so happy
in utah, where the mormons used to practice posture
before my movie sent them all to kingdom come
in the denouement, just before the climax
a really horrible thing happens, finally
after reams of crazy deaths and ecstatic couplings
but strangely, it seems rightly horrible
you might even say – apropos of
all the things, the death, the life
the well-hung dialogue, the rippling tears
the crippling laughter laced in the sacral bone
the very emulsion of the film itself
all melting together – beguilingly
a strange comic relief, a last straw
in the unending beverage that is my movie
by the boy poets, throwing an eephus pitch
___________________________________________________________
Thoughts for a Strong Week
May your bricks be
As strong as your mortar
May your jokes be short
And your pants even shorter.
_________________________________________________________
View From the Motel Room
behind the beige plastic light-proof curtains
above the whisper quiet
weather control unit
above the whisper quiet
weather control unit
bricks
baked red bricks
in rows
red baked rows
stacked like
bricks
a lotta bricks
a million bricks
stacked up
and across
up
and across
up
and across
in lines
that don’t line up
mortar brick
brick mortar
every where
a sun-baked mortar grid
above the weather control unit
sun creeps ticktock
across the bricks
slow as a brick factory
bakes bricks red in the sun
lots of angles
lots of cubes
lots of mortar
big stack
big view
in rows
red baked rows
stacked like
bricks
a lotta bricks
a million bricks
stacked up
and across
up
and across
up
and across
in lines
that don’t line up
mortar brick
brick mortar
every where
a sun-baked mortar grid
above the weather control unit
sun creeps ticktock
across the bricks
slow as a brick factory
bakes bricks red in the sun
lots of angles
lots of cubes
lots of mortar
big stack
big view
from the motel room
by the boy poets, reviewing the viewing
______________________________________________________
The Obelisk of Kartoon
The Obelisk of Kartoon
blasts
into the outersphere
a terrific fire
propelling
and pushing
and pulsating
the high techno, super lightweight,
superduper ultra alloy, outerspace metal
mocalvinium,
flaming,
hurtling
its weightless
astronauts, faces
pressed
against their visors which are
pressed
against the quadruple thickness,
built to last
in the vacuum of space portals
flashing
terrific grins, no gravity, hell bent.
by Calvin Burgamy
___________________________________________________________
FDR Built This Park
I can still hear the mighty hammers
of truth and justice and public opinion
clanging against the hard rock of the land
knocking out a great depression
picnic tables made from ropes
strong arms and B-52's
soaring from the mountain side
black and white, bricks and beer
a red white and blueprint and oh so green
bald eagles and wild turkeys
wild as broncos smoking FDR's tobacco
and now I sit here 50 years later
wishing Delano his large self and his rich sister
were right here
drinking our Budweiser, eating our potato salad
and seducing our neighbors
toasting the New Deal and Social Security
stacking the Supreme Court
gently reminding him not to say "japs"
and in general enjoying
the fine weather we're having
maybe he brought it with him
the boy poets remembering a distant time
_______________________________________________________
Muh-Muh-Muh My Fedora
left in the position
of far and wide
look to my fingers to see the other side
on one side this and the other side that
can't remember where I left my hat
gat
and then boom went the noise
boom
boom boom boom went the noise
and I found my fedora
yes, I found my fedora
I'm tellin' you
I found my fedora
exactly where I left it
look to my fingers to see the other side
on one side this and the other side that
can't remember where I left my hat
gat
and then boom went the noise
boom
boom boom boom went the noise
and I found my fedora
yes, I found my fedora
I'm tellin' you
I found my fedora
exactly where I left it
___________________________________________________________
Radio-Active
the sofa is a radio
the sofa is radio active
searching for signals
sit on the left, pick up NPR
on the right, get Fock Snooze
in the middle, all the hits
99x Robert “Bob” Robertson
laughing living loving lounging and loathing
coming at you 1000 miles an hour
from downtown Willacoochee, GA
straight from the heartland
straight from the atomic heart
the sofa is a radio-active
radio
_______________________________________________________
Rotel
Ro-tel
motel
coat tail
blood cell
ground swell
death knell
ark cell
farewell
get well
hard sell
misspell
repel
raise hell
propel
retell
soft sell
pastel
alarm bell
william tell
silica jell
liberty bell
____________________________________________________________
Indelibility Study
how many edible seconds do you get?
as many as you crave
memory is a function of desire
desire, lust and sex
thirst and yearning
beast and angel
beagle and eagle
converging on this
moment
this bright night
howl at the moon light
this nice slice
the river writes itself
__________________________________________________________
Night Light
snow cones
in the snowfield
night light
made of daylight
amber lamps
and amber skies
_______________________________________________________
It'’s My Pencil and It’s Hip
Formerly (“Marginalia”)
Copyright: 3 people with a pencil
Writing
with a thick carpenter’s pencil
is work
like trimming hedges
laying asphalt
or thinking
I want a thin pencil,
number 2, a clean, unused eraser,
sharpened, hovering expectant…..
( like my favorite nipple )
schoolbus paint sporting an orange head
better watchout cuz she’s loaded with lead,
quick on the draw, takin aim on the paper
six sides shootin to a pointed taper
the more you grind the sharper she gets
I like my pencil more than jumbo jets ---
she’s faster, you know, to any destination
she flies to the limits of imagination
my pencil is hip
number 2 with a clue
droppin lead on the page
oh yeah, it’s the rage
with a point to make
or break
as you will
not a quill to dip
on the renaissance trip
It'’s My Pencil… And It'’s Hip
___________________________________________________________
[on the way to]
My Car
This is IT, crystal
these few steps, perfect
glow of lamplight on the windshield
beads of perspiration rolling down the side door
All pristine, suspended, as I approach
I see... the lock... down... and the keys...
in the ignition.
Perfect.
My chrome head
flies off
The panels of a '49 woody wagon
come undone, a looping trajectory
one polished car door comes free
so I open it, slip in
"Where to?" Nobody asked.
"Timbuktu," I didn't answer,
"and make it snappy."
....a path, a way, leading, meandering
forgetting the way to my car,
found myself unfound myself, laughing....
The panels of a '49 woody wagon
come undone, a looping trajectory
one polished car door comes free
so I open it, slip in
"Where to?" Nobody asked.
"Timbuktu," I didn't answer,
"and make it snappy."
....a path, a way, leading, meandering
forgetting the way to my car,
found myself unfound myself, laughing....
Perfect.
_________________________________________________________
twenty-nine feet above the back yard
I love it when
my mind is like a
lightning bug
like a bright bug
lit, flying
drawing my attention
into the sparking
woods
firing
slow-motion flame
wild phosphorescence
music of the attic
fan
syncopating
nine dimensional
illuminated chess
games
twenty-nine feet
above
my inner back yard
by the boy poets in basic training
________________________________________________________
You Need a License to Go to Cuba
you need a government license
to go ninety miles off the mainland
to an estranged island
frozen in 1959
’57 Chevy’s healthier there than here
voodoo catholic deities fix what you didn’t know
staring stoic from shiny reconstructed dashboards
Meyer Lansky still lives there
snookering dominoes at dawn
waiting for Castro to cough in the shadows
hotels with cracked plaster
and a smart pomade at the front desk
bleached tear-stained postcard villages
sun dried sandpapered and rough from time
soft as the Caribbean breeze
hard as the bite of dark local rum
offered up and drunk
at the feet of a sultry Jesus
who bleeds molasses
and does the meringuè
you need to be stamped or canadian
to go there
or make love to a diplomat
who will whisper “pocos nadas” in your
hairy Norte Americano ear
to go there
or make love to a diplomat
who will whisper “pocos nadas” in your
hairy Norte Americano ear
Cuba is way gone and back again
home of sugar tobacco steam
rum you’d drink with Mary Magdalene
six hour diatribes from comrade Fidel
the coolest heat and
the hottest cool
it hasn’t changed
home of sugar tobacco steam
rum you’d drink with Mary Magdalene
six hour diatribes from comrade Fidel
the coolest heat and
the hottest cool
it hasn’t changed
we need a license
but we’re coming anyway
by the boy poets offshore, way offshore
but we’re coming anyway
by the boy poets offshore, way offshore
