Poems XIX

Did you know I'm dating my future wife? Cuz that's cool.

My Ocean

If I were the ocean and you were a boat,
It wouldn't matter if you went when I stayed put.

The ocean envelops the land, like ceaseless kisses the waves smack,
And my love encircles all of you and I'll never want it back.
It would be dishonest for me to say that I knew that this would happen,
That somewhere deep within my heart there'd be a bubbling to rival the Kraken.

I sound the trumpets every day as I await your return
My passion aches, I languish, curse, and still it only burns
Brighter, darker in its hues, I wish to torch the hurdles
No circumstantial Scyllan fates could ever claim to be hurtful
For I am stronger, safe in you, secure and wrathful, righteous,
I win the day, I seize the prize, I have what I need- us.

Call me El Niño, my temperatures rise when I see you,
But I'm no boy, in you a man, with loving eyes of blue,
You can sail the years away, at home's the ocean true.

Poems XVIII

Ancient Plants

There's a little beam of sunlight in the conservatory,
It speckles and glimmers in turn,
Illuminates that ennobled, ancient leaf,
Once megaflora, now known as the fern.

They've moved this fern to the New World and to Oz,
They've transplanted this plant to Japan,
But her chlorophyll grows greenest, replenished, and strong,
When her roots sink in to her homeland.

The fern has a noble (pre)history,
Grandiose and loved in the era of dinos,
But now she sits in a sterile glass room,
And her dreams intertwine with her woes.

But low scents still draw the butterflies,
Landing as happy strangers and not out of pity,
Fear not for the fate of the fair-fringed frond,
The same sun shines in conservatory, country, or city.

When I was a child in Larkspur's canyon,
The ferns would pop vibrantly after the rain.
Cold tears from the sky rolled off verdant faces,
The sacrosanct beauty seen only in pain.

There's a little beam of sunlight in the conservatory.
Warm, warm, warm-
The fern.

Poems XVII

Arctic Sun:

You put yourself low in the sky, and yet You
Warm all the small things, and warm me too.

You have no need to scatter shadows
Or make the snowdrifts melt,
Your beauty brings out their latent hues,
In brightened souls Your work is felt.

Without the Sun there is no lichen,
No lichen, no caribou,
The wolf needs meat and I need meat,
the cycle worships You.

The darkest days, when You're not here,
Feel as if they last all year,
But long winters lead to longest summers,
Bathed in light when you are near.

Poems XVI

Many a girl there were, there; But none of them were you.
I can sing "She's A Lady." I can sing "Delilah." And only in that order- 
Because of you.

I had no attached notions of grandeur
To see where we were going,
Whether bold, guarded, wickedly demure,
What was best in you was the unknowing.
Eila,
Though I said it wrong or spelled it poor,
Thy name held so much hope.
Either Fate could've been knocking at the door,
Blissful garden, or knotted rope.

And I didn't know! But
It's what I wanted to see,
But in the end you nixed us,
No love, no heartbreak, no
Sordid passions- for, soon,
The ocean shall be betwixt us.

Poems XV: Sonnets

WORD SONNET

Paradise

is

sitting

abeyant

in

a

new

friend’s

tent-

the

slapping

rain

plunging

down.

ITALIAN SONNET

I approach, rudderless, the darkened moor,

Where the crooked lighthouse normally sits,

Be there it may, but completely- unlit!

Yet I must set my course on her shore.

The coward caretaker trembled at the door,

The storm hammered in hellish, ghastly fits.

The mad tempest ran away with his wits,

His initiative drowned at the floor.

But hot winds have pushed the thunders away,

Brought new clouds that surrender to the moon,

Beautiful mistress! She dapples the bay-

Renders my damp night a glorious day-

Some cloud puffs are friends, some winds are a boon,

And fools full of fear should never hold sway.

SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET

I scoffed as I heard of love at first sight

Thinking it’d never happen to me-

I tried to reason with all of my might

Love with calculation, not fallacy.

But logic be damned, it’s every time,

Exponentially harder and faster.

It is reason I shun instead of rhyme,

My pupils dilated in disaster.

That’s what my brain claims, but maybe he’s wrong,

For although eyes see superficially,

The nose sniffs out hormones subtly strong,

Chemical love coming naturally.

I’ll let this infatuate garden grow!

Plant yellow Dutch tulips as Cyrano!

COURTLY LOVE

I.

I have a Platonic love, of a different sort-

My Pallas Aphrodite, Goddess full of wisdom and beauty both,

She is the ideal

The rest of us poor reflections

The only Form to Grace our Earth with unveiled presence

A shapeliness no circle can equal

Perilous to my sanity to behold the face of my abstract Everything

To marvel, quake in awe,

Wail and quiver at not having

Plato’s Athenian,

Come to us mortals in Troth.

No man can harness the sun or even stare too long ‘fore going blind

Blind as love

Part of perfection sits in me and raises me up,

Eudaemonic,

For even daring to dream of loving Forms of You.

II.

He who is not jealous can not love.

I am not jealous.

I am envious.

For I do not have.

I covet but do not covet love, which I hold in brightened, dark secret.

My passions invisible and obvious,

My Guinevere!

I am tired, tired of being ashamed,

For who I am is a lover.

A deep devoted fool,

Knight of motley and bells

That jingle for you, no errancy,

And herald a maddened gladdening heart.

I am more me because I don’t have you.

Poems XIV

"Page 113, January 2015"

A myelined-up Milky Way
Tendrils of dendrites lead galaxies away.
The dark matter of thoughts
Though they may be light, free or neuronic,

He thought to himself-
"We're just the electrons of a giant's brain."
A fifth-dimensional beast
As we have threes and twos and ones in our heads
The cycle ends sometime
Just as it began with a bang
It ends with a 5D suicide.
A self-inflicted gunshot
Because sheheit asked "what does it all mean?"
And didn't understand
That the universe'll never answer
Because in itself already had.

The search for meaning
       beautifully Incoherent as it struggles
               versus Inherency
                         Truth: subjective
                                  Also: meaning
        "But that's an objective fact."
His fists too heavy to lift
(His hands were made of ham):
High as all that loftiness,
A ha-ha heart beating a rhythm that seems unique
Until it searches the scope of infinity to find
Liberation in a speck and a number.

Poems XIII

"And A Sermon"

Do you remember when we used to do this?
I get a two-day hangover now
It's day one.
We'd drink our bellyful
Until the sun
Came up and we'd go to bed 'til noon and do it all again.
The moon was our friend,
Work the enemy.
It didn't matter the day,
We had class, sure,
and some wimmin did and some didn't
The same sisters wore their Lululemon
To 9 o' clock Wednesday Spanish
and 7 am Friday slinkings back home.
I loved those girls.
Not in the sentimental way,
But what they stood for,
Youth and ribaldry.
Revelry at the Dionysian Catalina wine mixer,
While in the pursuit of an education- they'll amount to more than us,
The ones who had to worry
About cleanup and setup
and the moral cleanup of taking back
Everything said the night before.
I don't know what they see in us.
But they're beautiful, every one.
Sluts is a bad word they say,
and it has dreadful connotations
But should not everyone
Be allowed the freedom to choose love with a side of lust?
It's the judgment inherent in the word, but it reflects on the moral police
I see jealousy and a lack of understanding.
We set a standard
We don't really know who should follow it.
So we lob darts at the board of "whores"
and know obscenity when we see it.
But I see beauty and hair flowing in the wind, the way it should be.
That's just me
A sentimental young fool,
Full of hope for the new, the next, the "us" generation
Let the girls play, they're women, not girls,
We're boys and men, not patriarchs,
I see walks of the unashamed,
Though the headaches can hang our heads.
We all have a desire to own,
To lock up our booty, or claim it from someone else,
Someone who has left it to fallow on an island
Men and women alike want the security
So they fight against gaiety.
A treasure can never be yours.
It's metal and gemstone and has no feelings.
A person can be yours
But some will never be.
Those are the grails you drink from-
I'd rather have a carpenter's cup
Than a gaudy, flashy one.
Tramps exist, so do cads, and the blurred lines inhabited between
But it is him without stones that casts the first one
While the happy stay grounded in dreams.

Poems XII

"At North Lake, Where I Did Not Mean To Go"

I took the path less traveled by,
The air cold and crisp and light,
The fall sun casting shadows,
The rocks and trees in darkened sight.

To look left at the leafless aspens,
With their amber cousin down the hill,
You could think they would squabble for life,
But they are one as the lakewater still.

A fish hops, brings a single ripple,
A southern breeze on calm North Lake.
But the aspen's stalks stand tall and clustered,
No telltale shiverous shake.

The fishermen across the water
Can be heard, what do they say?
They see me as I am quiet, on this
Lovely autumn day.


"Down In Sunset"

A pale silhouette of the burnished sky
The reflection shines brighter in its gray
My sight
Flies through the aspen ghosts
To watch a shimmer of refraction fade.
Fleeting, and gloriously so,
The ashen flow
Peeks through to me.
The mountains have their flipped counterparts,
But it is
Sky Father
seen in himself upon
Earth Mother
who stops my descent.

The sun dies
And my subject is cold and pale,
A silver farewell.


"Knives In My Room"

Three knives
On the wall
Coming in at Angle
Down & In
Down and out
A triad, trifecta, triangle,
The glided red, a royal's blade
A peasant's of hide and leather.
Nondescript and ceremonial,
The third tilted on its tether.
Knives for grandfather,
Knives for me,
Brothers of blood and those across borders
"Uzbekiston"
The cougar says
In fantasy scripts out of Mordor.

"Untitled"

I went to see the fall colors at Lake Sabrina
A friend
I don't know very well
Told me it was beautiful.

Why is it that someone always gets there first?
I was too late
Too old
To see the red-topped sprouts
The way my heart felt it should.
I went the wrong way more than once
Dead ends so full of hope
I thanked myself that I told no one
Brought no friends for my journey
But wouldn't it be wonderful

To share the sorrow,
For them to know my mind?

Rust still stood, here and there,
But I dismissed it as not my Muse,
Rocky islands, so many stones
Needing water
Needing snow, not shallows.

I see the waterline.
What could be.
The folly and fall of any romantic.

Possibilities linger and tempt.
So I'll try again.
I'll climb the mountains.
Find a new lake.
One higher up.
One that was there the whole time.

A few weeks, or months,
Time flies even when you want it to, when you wait for it.
Who is next?
I welcome winter
The harbor's closed.

An auburn gully tantalizes,
Moving on to what I cannot grasp.

But O!

The azure!

A different vantage,
Of a higher and nobler sort.

Breathtaking views from
Hard-breathing heights,
A powder sky,
Verdant shallows where I see
No fish but know he is there.
The lake, she opens a cerulean depth over there
Over. There.
There!
The word that's been missing.
What is, not what could be,
The is, the there
Bringing presence to the present moment
For this present soul.
Why harp on the nonce?
I see a second me belong
To the lady of the lake, so clear.

Poems XI

"On Horseshoe Lake"

A slight breeze brings the scent of the trees,
The bushes in sight
But no flowers, though
I scent happiness bright,
The smell of the act of living.
I calm my heart, and
Sunbursts bubble up from the deep.
I paddle in a ring,
Ringed by canine friendliness.
Sticks drift past me, theirs once, as
The cares of the world.

Green and brown and blue and
Hues all in between,
the murkiness and sun and shade collide.
No exultant joy, no excitement of ecstasy but-
Sweet, sweet melancholy turning to happiness as
The season turns too,
To what's right and should be.
No sadness there for me.

I paddle back and forth and have no purpose and
Stress washes and melts in the sun's warm beams.
It's serene, beauteous, peaceful and quiet, and
Solitary! But
I finally don't feel lonely.
Just calm even though the wind stirs the waves.
The chilly lake has no measure of "too much-"
Refreshment only,
The wind dies for me, the only one.
Just by myself, with a quieted mind.
He's not bringing the world with him. Just
Accepting it, the wondrous things,
The impartial sun, the lovely sun.
I am acquitted of dreariness and business both.

So I paddle, sweet serenity my guide.

Poems X

I think I've figured out my type; it's AAWG: All-American White Girl. The kind that would make me a pie. That's, I guess, first on my list of criteria for a life mate. Pie-making. Question 1: Would you make me a pie? Question 2: Will that pie be delicious? Question 3: Would you get jealous if I eat someone else's pie, like at Thanksgiving? If the answers are Yay, Yay, Nay, you've passed. This next poem has absolutely nothing to do with any of that.

"Cualacino"

I'm not drinking anymore,
he says,
Until I am.
I'm not eating carbs anymore,
he says,
Unless I want a donut.
I'm going to be a better person-
But not quite yet.
I'm going to clean the whole house-
Tomorrow.

Everything starts tomorrow,
It's the first day of the rest of your life.
But if that fails,
There's still the day after that.

A man sits in a chair
A woman lies in bed.
The room's a mess
And so are their heads.
The wind blows outside,
And the garage door creaks,
The front door slams,
They left it ajar,
A glass on the table,
Two on the stairs,
And all the while, it piles up,
Piles up, piles up-
Until it's too much to handle
Nowhere to begin
The wind chimes, again
Like an alarm
Blaring, the people like sheep,
Bleating, hating themselves
But they can't stop! Or rather, start.
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of everyone's lives,
Not just yours,
You're being selfish,
self-indulgent, because
Being selfless is scary.

It doesn't matter,
Fear never goes away,
It just changes-

So why can't you?

Why not me?
Why not you?
Why not?
Why?

Poems IX

It's smoky out here in Mammoth because of a fire that can't reach us. It's smoke, on the other hand, is not making my lungs happy. I hate wildfires, and it's high season here in California. Drought and years of dryness have turned out beautiful forests into tinder. All we can hope is that El Niño brings a wet winter for the upcoming year. But really, we can't change the natural processes of nature to our liking. We have to accept what happens, while still doing all we can the right way. We only have control over ourselves, so that's where we need to start, "I'm starting with the Man in the Mirror/I'm asking him to change his ways." Please conserve. Please, be the best you that you can be.

"Wildfires"

"Healthily" trapped in a cabin, in a cottage
A haze outside
And a ruby sun.
We have freedom from the flames
But the smoke assails us still
Assaulted with ash,
The secondary details,
The ripples and Vulcan echoes, are we.
The fire was fanned by "other"
Lightning or lighted fag,
I fear a man with no remorse
More than nature which just is.
The worlds consumes itself
And needs justify nothing.
But I cough and hack and wheeze and burn,
My eyes tear
For beauty and solemn truth.
We will be long gone
Before the last of the fires die, out or down
But still we can mourn and cherish
For that's the gift that's been given us.

"Through the fire and the flames/We carry on"

Poems VIII

"Clifford Smiles"

Fragile psyches

Embittered egos

On laundry day.

By God let your laundry hang out to dry

Hang out to dry

Let it hang out to dry.

It's not too worrisome,

It's not too important, even if it is.

Remember what you mock is simply laundry day

So let it hang out to dry.

I can bring quarters,

She can push buttons,

He can run out of bleach.

But it's laundry day, and even with a faulty dryer,

Tomorrow all your clothes will be clean.

Soon enough, they'll all be clean.

Soon enough, they'll all be dirty again

And it'll be laundry day.

Poems VII: Love Poems

Here are some love poems, and they're not all about the same person. They're all to remain a mystery, as they strike burnishing with the unrequited, unrelenting flame, lain cold.

"To Love a Love"

O! To be smitten,
That's the word;
An ode to being smitten-
Takes flight on a bird.
A lark as 'twere,
But always there,
I'm constantly flying,
Butterflies for a mare.
Bewitched in any hour,
By the heart's sweet power-
Has there ever been a time it's just been me
With no marathon running of fantasies?
I'll guess on answer,
Sweet Jeopardy-style,
And say no, not a chance, from checking
Mental files.
I love love
And always will
Being heady and drunk,
Drinking in my fill.


"M'lady"

A poem of love (a terrible one)
Yes, that's the way to do it-
One written by me
That you'll never see
Though your laughter did accrue it.
I might as well let my emotions forth,
(In paper form, at least)
Because it's wrong, I will not act-
I am no lustful beast.
"The pert and nimble spirits of youth,"
Your strawberry flowing tresses,
And of course the way you make me feel,
When my jokes are all successes.

Smartness goes a long way,
Dorkiness even farther,
I hope the best for the rest of your life,
May your blushing radiance grow ever larger.


"Fireworks of the Doubly Drunken Heart"

Hey!!! So...
I'm sorry,
But it turns out I love you.

And I ain't a fan

Of emotions,
Or notions,
But there are enough fireworks
In the world.
Not between us or nothin',
Cuz we friends,
And friends is dope,

-Haha-

There it is.
Damn straight,

Motherfucker.

Puttin'
Motherfucker on its own line?
Crazy as shit.
But:

Motherfuckin' worth
It.
Byaa.

Not this one. This one is more recent and that was her real name, a girl who lives in Vietnam. On two different paths, yet the fates let me have one blissful night of conversation. I do not live in Vietnam.

"Love In Sadness"

Danielle.
Forever,
And just for a nigh.
Love is a fickle thing
And it can happen in an instant
And last til the end of time.
When there's truth to it
When the connection is reality
It doesn't even matter what you say.
Because the content is deeper,
Its an elder compulsion,
An attraction of minds,
A gravitational pull,
Two bodies, one absolute,
Danielle.
You'll be gone,
Already fading,
Never again to meet.
But our hearts met,
That's all that matters.
One day, if the gods be good,
We'll be together knit in the universal consciousness,
That beating heart of humanity's entropy,
The math that holds the universe tight.
Tendrils of happiness
Of the true twinkling beauty
Starstruck and striking out gem-like stars.
A knowing.
An actual knowing.
No grok but yes.
A sure thing for a surety of passion.
Your hair that falls over earrings sweet,
Sweetness falling over thin smiles.
A leg up, on my shoulder,
A leg up, on the competition for my desire:
Full desire.
No singularity but wholeness
Of every fiber, every ounce.
A lingering hope
But I care not.
I accept you now as a part of me,
Though apart from me.
I wither and thrive in flux.

Poems VI

"A Walk in the Morning/Wood"

I took a walk one morning
would I say that that was that?
No, for I stumbled upon a bone,
Earnestly circled by a cat.
Its back was arched, its fur erect,
Shunning me, shooing me forth.
So I thought hard on the matter
And promptly changed my course.

Poems V, from a ski day at June Mountain

He was a dragon now
He looked like himself
But he was a dragon
Unequivocally. He knew.
Breathing fire
Hot
Like a fart on someone else's thigh
Seagulls flying
He was better than them.
All of them
All of who?
He didn't know anymore
Anymore
Than he knew who he was

-but he did know-
The universe and its secrets.
Our universe's name was Ted
It had replaced Francine
Or rather
Inflated inside her
A balloon in a balloon
Clowns have balloons
Dragons don't.
Rawr

"Shrooms"

I think saying the title after really makes the poem better for that one. These poems were written skiing at June Mountain. There are only two. I was by myself.

"Dope Status"

Try eight
You know it when you jump
Kicker off of Deer Bowl
I'd landed with a thump

Not once not twice
I gotta make it
Can't go home
My pride just won't take it

I'm the only one who knows I landed a three
But the most important person to see it is me

I know I did it
That's what counts
I refused to bounce without, I'm no slouch
So
All hail the conquering hero
With bruises and booboos
But a 3-6-0

Poems IV, Nature

These three come from my trip to Oregon's southern coast, Humbug Mountain State Park and its hike and beach. They're more serious, and I guess traditional. Inspiration drawn from where I was.

Untitled (Beach)
King of the two black burrens, I,
On a seat of stone on the Western coast.
I jump from rock to rock as the fleas,
And sail a white driftwood cross to my transfixtion.
I could walk to you, o poor man's isles,
Or you could come crumble to me
But the surf bends his knee to no poor lord,
No vagrant of airs, unworthy.

Untitled (Trail)
Running roughshod,
unclod,
as tiny little pebbles,
giving me the devil's
share of pain
on that membrane
separating body and ground
as still I bound
just starting
and yet a new beginning,
winning
back to barefoot
on the switch back trail
of Humbug,
up and up.

Untitled (Peak)
A rainforest doesn't have to be warm-
The moisture on your clothes. Sticky of sweat from the air's heat?
or just too many layers?
The fog can roll in, not the mist.
A hundred tribes, undiscovered.
A single Bigfoot, "discovered."
Redwoods tall or canopies thick
The sound of macaws on Highway 101?
We frown at the Cars' muffled cacophony,
But Tractors buzz barbarous.
Redwood becomes lumber but more take its place.
Slash and burn fills Amazon greed.
So I have a coast
And they have a river
But the Earth owns both and holds them dear.
Pristine isn't the only serene,
But quiet swirls in with the chill-
And I am sitting contented.

Poems III- Little Mary's OJ

This is the first poem I'm printing from my Oregon trip. It's in the vein of a Shel Silverstein children's poem, with a nice little moral to it.

"Little Mary's OJ"

"Aw, shucks."
Little Mary said.
"I didn't refrigerate my orange juice."

"Bad luck!"
Her little brother said.
And he ran to Mum to tattle the news.

But Little Mary was clever,
And Little Mary was bright.
So she poured a big glass of the OJ,
And pinched her nose with all of her might.

She drank that glass in one big gulp,
And then she poured another.
She glugged it all til the carton was done,
And in came her dear, sweet, old mother.

"What's this I hear about spoiled juice?"
But Little Mary had been quick as a flash,
"Little brother must be fibbing again."
(For the juice was already in the trash.)

So Little Mary's brother got punished,
And Little Mary got off scot-free.

If you make a mistake, always fix it yourself.
And never a tattler be.

Near East M20

"Near East M20"

In a "chair"
the Droning, Droning
Monotone I know
from teachers here, and
before,
Sapping away any will
with the darkness
like a restaurant.
It's not ambiance,
It's just dim.
The students that file in late
like I did on the first day
have it better than I.
They have only
74 minutes of classtime.
Not 75.


I guess we're just going to have poetry posts for the first few posts here, but I can't fight their ease of posting. These next few are all from Near East M20, the class I took my final quarter at UCLA. The professor's name was Robert Englund, and that class could have its own Nightmare on Elm Street movie. Professor Englund was the classic absent-minded professor, and he could put you to sleep if you weren't careful. Thinking back now, we did slowly lose students over the course of the quarter in lecture. I thought at the time students realized the class was boring and stopped coming to lecture; perhaps something more sinister was going on, and Freddy was killing us all in our sleep. Since I answered one question one time, I guess I was at the back of the killing queue. One shouted answer meant an infinite class participation increase. I fell asleep yes, but also respected Englund for his vast stores of academic knowledge that meant he could tangentially lecture for ten minutes and still not know how to work a computer properly. Freddy Krueger probably has a quip for that. I can imagine a student trying to access the website and it glitching. Suddenly, Freddy pops out of the screen, clawing open the boy's chest and pulling him into the HTML. When the boy is dead and in the computer, Freddy says, "What's the matter? Gone to code?" and laughs at the double meaning.

None of these poems are gruesome, though. The first does make the connection, but not seriously.

"Robert Englund"

Freddy Krueger,
With his cracking jokes,
My professor,
With his cracked tokens.
Street smart vs. book smart,
A wiseass and a bore.
Though they might both
Put me to sleep
Wearing the same sweater.


The absolute best is about how I looked at the Periodic Table of Elements, and well, it gets weird.

"Oh Wait That Says IUPAC, NVM"

In the darkness,
at the top,
It says "TUPAC."

Remaining a mystery,
His troubled troubling death,
untimely- and yet they say
He predicted so much
in his unreleased songs.
I say they say, I do not know.
Perhaps this is why
He Graces the table
that predicted the qualities
of its unknown Contents
in the Columns and Rows
already discovered.
The speculation on Tupac Shakur
is Periodic, coming and going
except for those constant conspirators,
remaining in their agitated states
as the Nobles remain unphased,
Filled to the brim with
Valence electrons.

If He(lium) could Choose
how to respell his name,
once more, would he
Choose HePac or 2Pac
or does he not care about
the proton count?

Yellow solids,
Green liquids,
Pink gases,
and Metalloids in Grey font.
Where is all the Brown,
as all is presented
on a White background.
Each letter is in Black font,
except those Metalloids.
But the elements are placed
in blocks, I see D-Block,
just like prison cells.
F-Block, the radioactive Man-made elements,
are placed off on their own,
in a Solitary Confinement,
Their Danger too much for Nature.


Of the five remaining from that's day poetry session, involving only about ten minutes of actual notes, I'm only going to include two. They're the silliest and shortest, but the other three are in poor taste and poorly composed at the same time.

"Mole Escape"

I am going to play
Mole Escape.

"Super Mole Escape"

I didn't state the name right,
It's properly "Super"
With Megas and Ultras
To speed my Mole
On his way.
I say "his" because
I'm not playing with Matilda.
I send her on her way.

Poems II

Delving back into high school here for the first, crude one, but its heart truly belongs to the spirit of Phi Psi, where it was read as the opening act of the Fall '09 pledge class talent show. Any hate mail on this one should be directed to Vanderlei Luftwaffle, who I hear entered into a coma in late December 2012 and has yet to come out of it.

Excerpt from "Swiss Vulgarities Vol. 1"
"Takin' Home Fat Chicks Sober"

You may be lookin' super heinous,
But girl you know this average penis
Takes 'em from average all the way up to heavenly;
And on the flip side all the way down to slovenly.
I enjoy blasting off like a rocket in space
No matter what the fuck that is on your face.
Ugliness is not a factor,
I'm going to plow you like a tractor.

-Vanderlei Luftwaffle
(1937- )

The second poem is another limerick, dated October 31, 2011. This was the Halloween I wore a self-designed Captain Planet costume to class, complete with a green dye-sprayed mullet and Smurf facepaint.

"All Hallow's Limerick"

No Halloween spirit? I just couldn't stand it.
So I dressed up like ol' Captain Planet.
But when I wanted to pee,
It took ten minutes you see,
Root suit zippers are tougher than granite.

Poems I

These poems are from high school, I guess, as I recently found them in a binder.

Limerick About Poetry

Some poems are actually gems,
Whether written in pencil or pen.
If the humor is hot,
I dig the rhythm a lot,
So with poetry I make amends!

"Arkham Asylum"

Who am I supposed to be?
The answer does not lie with me.
The knowledge lies within a book,
you'll see my face, go take a look.

The gentleman in the next cell
Thinks he's got happy feet.
If it rains outside on him,
He'll waddle out into the street.

Across the hall's another crook,
He's not in Kansas anymore.
If I were a horse I'd chomp his bones
And put his clothes at the farmer's door.