Illustrations of Night Landscapes

Oh! how beautiful it is to think of you
at night -- when the trees
are painted black and flat.

The sky is blue and the air
is always full of music, birds
singing. It makes me feel

for a moment. And sometimes that's enough.

Things I Hate

Having friends in other places.
Seeing names I know with last

names I do not. Marriage and
babies having babies. The lack

of love radio stations show for
their bands. Mayonnaise:

the condiment, not the song.
Misspellings of words we know

we know. American beer. Sundays.
The whirling sound the laptop

makes when I leave the room.
Ghosts, 'cos they're not as

romantic as we make them out to be.

Ghost Poet

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(Editors: Yeah...we don't get it either.)

[Beautiful houses...]

Beautiful houses and
beautiful homes, we hate
when our days are in
someone else's hands.

To be a passenger is
a nauseating experience,
like finding the ones
we love in the bed

of another. And it makes
us weep, though we know
it's deserved. Vicious sons
of bitches get the chair

not an olive branch. I've
written this all before.
I'm sorry I'm not
sorry to repeat. It's my

bag, baby, and you best
eat it all up 'til your sunk
en cheeks pop full. Some
academics say the current

generation is too personal,
they don't consider
the whole. Well I think
it's true, 'cos who cares

about people nowadays?
Not I, says I, says I.

The Copywriter

I will be confident. I will make her
very sure of her movements, for
there is no time to fumble about.
I may be the best cardboard suitor
this world has ever seen. Maddening,
isn't it? Keeps me up late at night.

They always leave dissatisfied, 'cos I'm not
as famous as I claim to be. Sorry sorry, lady.
It wasn't as good for you as it was for me?
Psh, I'll write you in a novel, and ask
Jennifer Beals to play you on the t.v.
She'll say yes. She thinks I think she's god.

And she's right, and godly, and sweet.
Talk me to sleep, not to death,
and I will never leave you when I wake.

No Poets

No more dead bodies for Daddy tonight.
He's seen his fair share, and is nothing
but ready for bed. No more chests filled

with heavy lead, no more heads crammed with flippant thoughts.

'Cos our existence
is a haunted one -- and baby?
We've been exorcising.

No gods decapitalized or vegan dishes mispronounced,

snapshots are all we've got --
so why isn't that enough?
They may be more fun than the fun

to be had while you're wild singular and swigging

and swinging about that blade.
This is the sound of progress.
This is not the sound of successful

progress. No poets renting sheds in the backyard,

made of foil and lightning bolts.
No poets beating lovers with found
objects until they bleed: a way out.

No poets are needed, and for that we are very very sorry.

Dancing In the Dark

They wore their clothes 'til the stitches
popped and frayed, and the girls

let their dresses fall
to their ankles.

What does it mean to "wear"?,
They yelled at us, naked by the fire.

And we didn't know what to
say, when it came to the question

of wearing. 'Cos we've been worn-out,
but that's different. Or is it?

What do we do when our clothes
have worn through?

Stop wearing them down
and stop wearing them.

We had such a better grasp
on this last week, when we'd wake

from dreams about gun play
in Seattle, or was it L.A.?

The television can only do so much
for us, and will not help with problems

of the hearth and nubile co-eds
strutting around it, forsaking

their clothes and all others. The idea
has gotten away from me but

will come back, like the sharp sticks
that are coming for our eyes.

Have we seen too much of the girls?
Have we worn out our welcome?

Oh! ha ha. There are many meanings.