Poem: Comic Poetry

Networks of stinky word fart bubbles in tepid spring water

spit from a methane snow monkey spring in japan, or wherever

dreams come from this day and age, festering cliche wounds

gangrenous memories of childhood trauma stink

probably forbearing penises to ejaculate, presently

at least, tomorrow is a mystery

like love, though less lame, to be sure

introducing a spiteful apocalypse, probably in truth.


Comedy is about timing and poetry is not

about timing, hyperbole is fact

funding foundations arisen, on the back of a well-placed quip

saying the rich should eat poor children

as a satirical aside, a creature cackles linking

knife key teeth in a mad guffaw, pointing at you

lengthy skeleton fingers portending doom

forbidden by the failures, drowning into mirror eyes

show me the truth of it, that this is stupid.


Laughter knowing its own nature multiplies

divisions of status, like a bucktooth boy

built for winter, gabble at the wind while spit flies

like the dude in Shine, derisive is the reaction

flowing from our eyes, from our ears, till we die

thousands of ends approaching, though we know not why

we find it funny, to acknowledge our own vain vanity.

Poem: Comic Poetry

“Exile on Main Street” by the Rolling Stones

Whistle smooth, flowing free like the breeze in an alley

at night, “Rocks Off” by The Rolling Stones kicks, like a styrofoam

pink dice mule, and “Rip this Joint” claws through its velvet

curtains for you, a parading saxaphone hoists your symbol

up on a pike, piercing the god shadow of night’s

dark disguise, so by the time you boogie on the roulette

wheel you’re plastered, shaking your hips in a tumble

time of reflection, wondering whether wounded lovers

compose a jury, squealing like a one-string guitar

in a ballad for the moon, raised up on dice angels

low down crazy wailing, pleading in a rain storm

of “Tumbling Dice” enough is never said, but a mourning

dawn’s harmonica leads into a barroom

sing along chorus, scraping the shit off

all of our shoes, to see “Sweet Virginia”

“Torn and Frayed” brings a “Loving Cup”

full of mud, begging a drink, slowing to a pause.


I need love to keep me “Happy,” you’re god damn

right over horns again, we are all on the run

from nothing and everything, rejoicing in our losses

with an accordion squeeze, “Ventilator Blues” tether on a drum

beat slowly constant, building slowly on a desire

until we “Let it Loose” in the sky, floating over a choir

of beautiful spirits, patterned with piano

horn and organ, for a pal to join us

“All Down the Line” greasy with oil sweating

tears of joy, but I won’t break down

ever, into the piano pit with the blues

hounds all around, they’re all my friends and allies

chuffing me a good clip, releasing into joyous chorus

feeling the life of light, shining from the good lord

shining a song, calling you the “Soul Survivor”

with bell-bottom blues, spilling onto everything.


This is my favorite album, and it changed my life.

“Exile on Main Street” by the Rolling Stones