Poem 64

I don’t need another metaphor
I need a matador to fight my bullshit war.
Life is small moments.

To own is to take stake in the world,
To sit down is to adjust to insanity,
To adjust is to accept and this is the way
Everyone good life goes bad.

Sometimes life just goes bad, for a longtime.

I don’t end when I. Ego
Own I not, rent a room in the world I do.
This is metaphor, which I do not need,
According to the first stanza.

Before I got yodaesque, I was heading toward
A story or allegory about the minutes being the life,
The long days between nothing and something,
About how life is a slow churning and how you should
Evade the fencers and rush to the hades roll call.

I don’t give advice though, I write these goddam poems.

Poem 63

Urn dimes burned around their eisenhower edges
And will not register with the vending machine eye.
Grain alcohol if snakes are reproaching.

My ears popped inflight despite the chewing gum ward.
I make no Freud slips that could tip the dark side balance.

As we coaster out of the mouth of ahab I am reminded of
How the whale hunts the hunter, and without fail, finds its krill.
Now the ship wanes in the mains, loses train of thought
flounders in the doldrum wine glass menagerie.
We are all out of vitamin See.

But wait, I’ve just remembered,
these stanzas are made of minor lines,
and urn dimes can never be returned.


New drawings

This gallery contains 4 photos.

New drawings, some as fresh as yesterday evening. Like with my poetry I try not to make you read it one way or another, however, each one is a poem with a title that may suggest some line of thinking whether true or false to the original intent. Michael Glenn 2013

Poem 62

When the great Boo Dada came down out of the sky on his flaming ballpoint race horse,

spouting his manifestos and commandments and memorandments and blog entry rambles,

i was in the toilet of a very dirty burger king on Lafayette road, across from the car dealership.

when i stumbled forth from the watery chasm of infectious surfaces i saw that my whopper had

imploded from the sheer force of proselytizing that had been done in the sky, and in the dining area.

i brought my desecrated burger to Mandy, the key manager on duty, and asked her for another.

she did not hear me, her ears were glued shut with the magic of the Boo Dada’s lyrical tirade.

so i asked the fry cook, Larry, but he was salting fries and enumerating the sainted of the Boo Dada.

finally, hungry and pissed right off, i jumped the counter, rifled through chicken and fries and junior whoppers

and grabbed my replacement whopper, so cleanly wrapped in it’s waxy paper, so warm from the lamps.

i sat again in the booth beneath the summer window heat, outside i saw that an apocalypse had broken out,

in the sky eagles and wolves fought, angry dead admonished their living survivors, explosions and plagues broke out

but i didn’t have a stake in the mayhem so i sipped my dr. pepper and unwrapped my almost 100% beef mana,

unfortunately it had pickles. i headed over to see if subway had survived the coming of the Boo Dada.

Poem 61

Jingling keys in St Peter pocketbook nightmare greed,

I have been a broken alligator who could not shut his mouth.We ate the children when winter turned.

Horsewhisperer, can you whisper to horses who are really metaphors for people who have run a good run, stumbled, tripped in the rut, and broken an ankle? I want more beagle eyed red baron dog fighters to patrol my weary kingdom skies. Horsehwisperer, nevermind.

When you search for one truth, you find starchy pigeon pot pies. search for three truths, says the Boo Dada and you will find one that can fill in in place of the one you wanted.

Alligator jawed, reaching backward into a shopping cart, finding broken heinz ketchup bottle glass, can’t tell if i’m bleeding or a condiment covered hors d’oeuvre.

Jingling, jingling keys, amish steeples, cheese, a wheezy cough in a drafty house on the plains.

dear Boo Dada, i am less than i thought i was and i found too many truths.

Poem 60

Picking up a penny from under a grocery store checkout,
Rewind, pan out, wide angle.
Picking up a penny, in the A&P, in 1984, in the evening sometime, from under a grocery store checkout, while mommy pays with cash.
Rewind rewind, pan out more, trolley out to ext shot.
Picking up a penny that has been dropped by an old woman, while the snows of 1984 Indianapolis circle outside, bunching up in drifts, icing up roads, people covering and rushing inside, and a wintry breeze gets down in the collar of my coat as I bend, touch the not-strictly-copper of the penny, and pick it up from under the grocery store checkout as my mom pays with her bartender tip money, knowing she’ll have to cut corners somewhere, and
zoom in zoom in zoom in tight, macro,
three frail skin cells of the old woman who survived two wars, a depression, a kindly but distant husband and too many dead sons touches my fingertips and for a moment I feel lucky, and sad about the penny under the grocery store checkout, but
zoom out to top down view, somewhere above in the corner of the store,
I put it in my pocket anyway as we go out into a bygone winter.

Poem 59

A dnd McKnight sat cross legged on a bus,
His ranch funds low, his mind sipping billboard glow.
Hue side bugle sighs cascaded in the afternoon haze,
From the market windows and the drive thru views.

He wanted infinite escape from the alchemical but
There were the Abbas the turtles the months the baby,
The monshkas, the defeated periods, the den where love
Foxed in marginal paper outline breakers.

A dnd McKnight sat cross legged dining oak firm
On pink hams and quest item foes.
The evening a fiendish sidekick to his lacking meme.
He kicked sideways at a frowning lily pad.