Wednesday, May 25, 2011

The Walt Whitman Bowling Haikus

Planks pitter patter
dance the Dervish pine runway
balls and holes as one

Sup with me leaguers!
imbibe thy cold-sprung barley
sort us from the weak!

Oh my filthy holes!
take thee flaming balls to task
grip thy trophy fast!

Sing, Oh alley, sing!
let our legacy live on
each ball turned to blue

Thy supported wrist
snow powdered gloved hand and ball
rearrange thy pins

Kegler, hear the din!
as a bull we charge young lanes
full alley we rent

America bowls!
today I return used balls
I give my shoes back

Cold domestic beer
let today be paradise
summer rates are here!

Semi-pro bowler!
let your handicap a’ shine!
be forever loud!

Wednesday, May 04, 2011

"A Winter's Night" --my synopsis

A uniquely styled, witty yet sober look at 21st Century relationships complicated by the isolation of human technology and the culture of today’s modern society.

Emily, Shelby and Graham are lost at different points within the current “post-personal” human age:

Emily works at a museum in Whitechapel and speaks to no one. But from her cramped flat in North London, she speaks to the world! Who are these two opposing personalities who share the same physical body? And which one is actually real?

Shelby is a student at King’s College. She is a self-sufficient free-spirit who thrives in her world of constant Internet communications and doesn’t give a second thought to juggling some 300 online friends.

Graham is a successful photographer who prefers to stay clear of technology because of the overwhelming affect it has on his sanity!

Split between a tragic event some twenty years ago, and a frosty December fortnight in London, “A Winter's Night” is the story of two young women who discover that they share a remarkable past and are inadvertently brought together by the peculiarly likeable Graham, as he sets about photographing the City of London.

The three of them discover real bonds of friendship, sadness and loss as they learn their true identities beyond the world of online relationships, computer rhetoric, and cyber personalities.

Tuesday, May 03, 2011


hour world is
hour place is
hour time is


heroine is her



hour world is
gliding by hours
to she


h with ought
to she

hours passed by
ward hours is


hoo hour

Saturday, April 23, 2011

The Sonics of Shakespeare (the first three)

(These were created using voice recognition software)

Sonic 1

Film Paris to cheer with this error in case,
Debt thereby duties rose might never die,
What has the right to shoot by time the stance,
It then there it might better at an RE:
But sell contracted to nine or by A’s,
Deepest day lights and we see substantial new,
Making the game and we’re a bowl it’s nice,
Die sale the eighth pole, and die sweet save tool.
Vale I it now with its British on it,
And only a lone tool that goes with spring,
Witty and on board to bore used content,
And, tender test waves in the data been.
But did the wit, ordinance gonna be,
To it the world’s two died today NT.

Sonic 2

When the 40 interns shadow my bow,
And the deep trenches in that stays be a,
Tell you not so very, so gaze on how,
We’ll be a driver we’d, a small would hand:
And being taxed with art die tutee Nuys,
Where the trail issues diagnostic dates;
To say, what and din own thee suffer highs,
We’re in all the team share and did this space.
What’s more plays guitar Diablo to use,
If Doc wants (an) answer, ‘this Fitzgerald’s name,
Sailing might count, and make mat ward excuse,’
Proving he’s due to buy stock station nine!
This weird to be in no meant when Dow fold,
And steep dive brewed why I tell the used code.

Sonic 3

Milk and like less and ten days dealt the list
Knowing that time that this should form another
Who was fresh repair if not all the note the nosed
Dole goes to the delta what all the best of some mother
Foliage to sell to a close unneeded warm
Tuesday and as the DH of the husbandry
ROA is the sole fund will be the two am
Always self rule to stop post Derek D.
Diet time under glass and she and the
Calls back to know who the 8000 of the time
So ballot title windows of time they should state
Does that offering goes to use the record and time
“if the only if calling them voted not to bid
Days singled and a new image days with D.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Songdo IFR

High on the hills, clouded rain births the cry of geese
Switching from VFR to IFR.
They are invisible in the grey
And only heard now pitching their calls
from the very front of the flying V to the tails.

There are moans and rumblings up there
And the empty skyscrapers form an arcade
Of impassable towering clusters.

Lightening wacks the firmament. It teases.
An Osprey cries out to join the exodus
In sonar.

The morning becomes darker and Songdo
Tropics another midnight summer.
She casts a gentle darkness reminding
The skein this was the Yellow Sea once,
And it is time to head for shore.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Three Poems

This is Autumn

This goes without saying:
Crack the book,
Climb, giggle, cry.
Elope with me.
Mendelssohn flashback
preamble dimmer wafting windrow,
strings, hours, woods.
Roll up the swather—
This is the end of Genesis:

Where petals riding upon leaves
As Greek Gods in chlorophyll chariots
Descend long paths in a history to nowhere,
Wonders of the world in time,
Abandoned great walls and feats of stone;
Looming towers and languages

Discovered as if lost and yet the desire to reconnect
Seems inherited, like gold between green and brown;
Created as bronze Amish fashion,
Fascinating as heavy blue stitch velour,
and Coco couture;

Ignoring Junket’s throne by which they created
With the bleach of wicked tears that sting the lips of lovers
One to the other, symbiotic, recycled,
The chaff forgotten;
And one a new name, slipped past and under
The falling curtain of the day.

Have they forgotten something,
something that seems to matter?
Did they analyze and devise so strictly,
So hubris and haughty, that the head has
left the body?

Because they ache, have they lost their keys—
is it something they have missed?
Because of want, are they remiss—
too desperate to see the coming freeze?

Why have they not named her?
Why not, this milky calf of Gaia, wallflower,
Blurry hero, black hole piercing,
Early riser, living in amber-glow beacon
of summer’s dying embers?

She sleeps cool to the touch in xanthophylls,
Waiting for a kiss.

But they will have nothing of it—
Nothing of it at all to atone,
Until they need her seed, then let it be so.
They have head lights, power seats, and steroid grocery stores.
They have gas to get and traffic to flow.
…Today, they’ll be in paradise.

Her movements do not move them—
A forest fire, fire without breath means absolutely nothing.
Tragedy is man’s doing.
What would an earthquake do without you?

The world, the harvest ignores—
Orphan grief, faceless whore;
Degas girl standing opposite interior door,
With one and only shiny, dry tear;
Rumored pregnant, sickly green, with wormy holes.

Anthocyan box seat witness to self-destruction,
Self-future-torn, self-poisoning, self-riotous,
Selfish planet train wreck; ashamed to name you.

The scythe is named among tools, to go even
Unto death. That which makes the swing
Knows the moon; presiding for a moment
On sudden, lonely redoubts where men cease writhing;
Marked by glorious ribbons, patches, and pins—
Calling ghostly families,
and swallowing for home.

Even aboard instant calamity, transfixed view of heaven
From heaven of her; dark traveler in limbo,
Choosing her over home; ending with lit up smiles
in a trail of solid fuel;

Or, in semi-private room, divider set sheers and lots drawn,
Late between shifts, past visiting hours; basked expiration
in comforting luminous flux.

…Can she not be named beyond these harvests?

There are too many trees on TV,
And too many working honey bees to break the spell
Of cataracts and lover’s smells.

A wedding dress by Nike;
Swans and ice cream cones
Standing brain-frozen and sticky-handed
In the grimy air that is embarrassment and Lohengren.
Glow sticks bouncing in the night, twisting and turning;
A dilated majorette leading a blacklit techno band.

The spun spectral language of the planchette,
The permanent protection flax scent of strong Wicca,
The orange chill of Sleepy Hallow dinner parties,
And the chase of the gilded nye.

The purged orchard falls, the vines stare vacant,
And the roots withdraw. It is the battlefield they saw,
Across the wall in cyber malls; where the last child
Who played under street lights is dead to the .wav of SimCity,
Eulogized in an instant message:

and then u and then they
and then he goes
and then they and then he
and then she and then im
and then she and then he
and then i go and then she
goes and they all
and he goes and u go and im all
was sed wat sed i sed
wat sed i herd wat sed
u herd wat sed
he sed she sed they sed
i sed wat they sed :-) lol

We will be talking of this meme, this evolution
We have seen in carotene.
We will blather on in air polluted fashion,
And narrow skies of carrier pigeons.

Did Carthage advance this form?
Gravid season pains, Apgar shaman waits
For the coroner of civilization to procreate.

We are mythology, with low rated telethons,
And nearshore carapaces boarding
Selective societies.

Soon, a garish charge to see the stars
On a sky-cast silver screen,
And the moon will be ten dollars, with photo ID.

She is pale, bland, and sad like us…

And apathy will dismiss it all, as the grasshopper did,
Ignoring his haul, instead playing all summer,
And through the fall; where his dignity slipped,
And he ate up the ants that winter
For dinner.

Comet Carpooling

desert lust—
coyote and
in moonlit
river bottom
pass quail eggs
silent as stones
hear crickets
count temperature
hot and fast
under saguaro
sits solitary
beneath cosmic
night lights
staining the world
deep blue
and shimmer
sweat gets sucked
up into
dry winds
chap skin—
this is
desert love
and comet


the elements
so smooth
so thoughtful

lullaby sea
and land

or reactions

bigger than
rocketing around
the sun

kept from
space sickness
by transom

grandness is
grandness is

it’s all night we really
when the sky blinks

Green Lake

I hear the crooner catching air
with a loose fin at the surface
of the still lake; a sudden decibel
leap from muffled and murky
bastion of sonar, to the lively
and lit face of the earth’s
aquatic domain.

I hear the way he strikes
his flagrant note atop shallow
water, combining the right
amount of phrasing with heavy
summer air; knowing that he
is prime, youthful and daring.

Perhaps he performs for me
and the outer world, trumpeting
a new existence; exploding
with hidden color, the touch of nirvana.

Or is it for his ilk?

He a sacrifice, the son fish
Finishing school and moving on;
the Pisces shrouded in secrecy
and clouded in thick watery
shades of brown and dense green.

Nevertheless, all that remain
and the only evidence of his recital
are the steady rhythmic ripples lapping
the nearby shore; the signature
graffito, the rapture—