Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

the Interview

Tuesday, September 18th, 2012

do you like our fake trees?
why are you two feet taller than me?
do you have a degree?
why did you leave this job?
have you ever painted a sunset?
why are you staring at me like that?
do you masturbate in the shower?
have you ever raised honey bees?
is that florescent light too bright?
did you just put that wedding band on this morning?
have you ever spent seventeen days in jail?
do you believe in God?
what time is it when the mouse runs up the clock?
did you vote for Reagan?
have you ever been affiliated with alcoholics anonymous?
quickly, what is the square root of thirty-seven?
are you attracted to me?
how many siblings do you have?
are any of them gay?
can you honestly compare work experience with four years of college?
do you like my perfume?
i got it as a gift from my secret lover
we meet in the park at lunch time
what is your paypal password?
is this the best you can do?
i have several, oh maybe ten more applicants to interview
can you be reached at this number?

neonduskmondayaugust142000628pm

“Do you like them in a box?
do you like them with a fox?”
-Dr Suess

Nevada 1975

Tuesday, May 22nd, 2012

talking to a mountain
her breath the wind
her hair the pines
laying down across her back
and shoulders “where lost
souls roam upon you
sleepless nights and campfires do you
ever grow tired of us?”

(with the sun peeking over her)
“i love the taste of the morning
my imperfect body covered with snow
i touch your visions and guide you
(a tear dangles beneath her eye)
I knew your grandfathers parents
and their parents
have seen fire and ice
life and
death
my arms are always open
my trails forever evident.”

reaching majestically into a star filled sky
exhaling into a black silk smoothness
the crickets now singing
against the nights heavy curtain
Now
the mountain sleeps.
cradling her fragile love for
her mother,
the earth.

neonduskmondayjune719991037pm

As I walked through the wilderness of this world,
I lighted on a certain place where was a Den,
and I laid me down in that place to sleep;
and as I slept, I dreamed a Dream.
~The Pilgrim’s Progress, by John Bunyan, 1675~

“My life is holding the universe together.”

Tuesday, March 20th, 2012


Dearest Icky-Poo-Yum-Yum,
My thoughts while searching for a vector ice cream cone on “images” in Google: is art an anti-depressant? If my laptop dies, I can always learn how to paint on canvas.
Do you, as a man, know the principles of basic plumbing?
Do we all know that your hands are your first teachers? There are way too many techno-brats in America today.
Keep the spark ! Eat the faith ! Slice some bread !
Rehabilitated gas stations. e-mailing-surfing-sharing-downloading-uploading-swapping information-videogaming-meetingpeople?- a brain chemistry love fest.
Are we not yet afraid of The monitor and the keyboard? The lion and the bear. The peach and the cobbler. The paint and the brush.
People need to know how to make things work!
Can you take apart a magnetic motor and put it back together again?
Did you ever build a plastic model? (of a car – of a war machine)
Can you use a sewing machine?
SUB-PAR
(not enough salt in the potatoes)
If the phone does not ring, it’s me.
I love the winter in the spring.
Please touch.
Ja !
Love me do.
Hand painted canvas ties. My idea for Etsy!
The business card will NEVER be replaced! Handshake school.
I will meet you, Mr Icky Poo Yum Yum some day. In person. Face to face. Not with Skype or a text or a mouse.
I will hold your hand under the roof of a house, look into your plastic brown eyes and shake your professional hand. Then we can have plastic cheese.

Kindest regards
Georgeous George. 2012.03.21

the Hartman’s

Wednesday, February 1st, 2012

The Hartman's


a really hot hot summer day in late 1960’s my mother asked me
what i wanted for my birthday dinner
hot hot oven and no aircondition ing
ok my favorites hamburger and frenchfries and here we were lined up
on the long table(hand crafted) Later:
Mr. Hartman arriving like an anthology of darkness, writing his lifes numbers in little black books
and sometimes he would write to God, skipping through Jesus and right to the
boss of the house always six feet taller then anyone else, he never
wore jeans and grew tomatoes and roses
outside

With the cuckoo clock on the rec room wall
scaring the simplicities of childhood right outta my ripped spaceman-pajamas. Modern
kitchen catching Thusday nights setting sun”Dad is gonna KILLYOU when he gets home
and yet”he never did murder.Just sits down to steak and mashed potatoes laced with speed
“Pretend we’re an unexploded bomb (she shivers and sighs”

These two that got married in the rain one soft June anniversary day in who knows when
nineteen hundred and who cares. They drank and gambled fought and loved.
After too many cigarettes and Rock and Ryes on the rocks the kitchen walls
collapsed and woke the ten children out of deep dark dreams

you are ATOP of a mountain of stairs The worn out gold shag carpet path
holding your siblings hands Down in the valley of kitchen the scream ing makes no
sense. Constant.
A freight train flying by at top speed endless your necks straining for the end somewhere the caboose please
God help the world is ending when your parents are drunk and fighting bells and lights flashing
finally from the top of the mountain fog in the sobbing, someone cries out PLEASE STOP

You are past boundaries of late night unheard of in your age.

Day 7

Monday, November 21st, 2011

when i first pulled up
the sign in front of the house when i first saw it i
fucking threw up in the driveway the first time”for
sale-take a virtual tour”and the rain washed itaway/
that is what they tell me it says anyway
only when i read it it says “THE MAN OF THIS
HOUSE IS A LOSER”
and fucking aunt amiee laughing at the photos on the
internet Like she was laughing at me
and the neighbors drive by real slow in their brand
new trucks and cars…their new additions on their
homes

flowers that i planted ten years ago starting to pop
up
spring is here already?
and so much i wanted to tewll you
so damn much
just washeD away;like my throwup

neonduskmondayapril1520021027pm
“You have no idea what a poor opinion
I have of myself, and how little I deserve it.”
-william gilbert

Free Fall

you made me smile

Thursday, January 13th, 2011

An anthology of our love. Drawn crinkled
Curtains. Capacious
day. Another in and out cloud-filled sky.
I’m sick and tired of writing about my rapturous crap. Drowning
In my own self-pity.(my real)curiosity is
Of your soft inner thighs(and the smell)
Of fresh cut grass. Now
As the wind kicks in. Your sunflowers
swaying in a huddled group. Your
stories are beautiful. It touches my senses (fills my eyes)
There are dead crows everywhere. Lobster restrictions.
In the crispness of dusk, people flee the streets, as
the mosquitoes rise from the marshes, weathervanes twist sharply,
hammering keyboards in the darkened day, wondering if your lips
Are achievable. The irrelevance of my brightly-lit-ego-marquees
In the hushed fog of early morning bike rides, head bowed in prayer,
wondering if you are there, who died in a porch laden sleep,
though I still see you walking with all the ghosts,
of all the aunts, in long summer dresses, a pinched smile
a long traveled mile
To the Fair in August, and the smell of manure
scrap yard ferris wheel with half the lights out,
Some blinking. Creaking rust and happy children
Screaming innocence of blacked-eyed suzie
bemoans its fate to a vase as
New Construction covers the northern lights,
parsley crab pie, an internet recipe, a mouthful of fire, spices,
cooling on the windowsill, microwave madness, purity of steaming rice
Spread out before me. Impressed. You made me smile.
You made me cry. Like a baby. One day we’ll make love to this
Violin
One Day
I’m going to revise this poem

GCH

The real failure of improv is not trying it.

Sunday, November 21st, 2010


Bob bought me some orange chicken on 30th street. The Rangers homecoming. Ranger Blue and Red everywhere. The wind dancing with discarded newspapers. I’ve been waiting for this yellow-taxied moment-standing in the middle of the greatest city in the world – looking up – Lazy tripping reflections off the million or so windows. Translucent double-sided clear, removable vinyl, mounted to 1/4″ gator board.
“Where’s my freakin fortune cookie?”
My father grew roses around the house – like the necklace around your neck. And they bloomed twice a year. Sometimes at peak, if you walked out into the yard, the fragrance would almost knock you down.
My father grew a business in a ritzy rich town – like an ice cream store in hell. And it bloomed with burlap and silk. Sometimes during a sale, if you walked out into the racks of fabric, the fragrance would almost knock you down.
The Diary Of A Sex Addict (ACT 8 SCENE 3)
“Ok ok ok, just leave me alone…you fucking asshole. I’m not some damn machine!”
“I love you.”
(curtain)

Indian Winter

Friday, May 29th, 2009

indian winter
im not gettin outta bed yet

Mac or PC? Zune or iPod?
Vista or OS X?
Net Book or Mac Book?

hunger or stuffed?; empty or full?
dance or sit?; toilet or woods?

You or your children?; You or them?
Your children or you?; Them or You?
Hardly everybody. Barely you.

i dont have a manifesto but i do have a plan

neondusk217pmfridaymay292009

from the shores of iwo Jima….Entry for March 19, 2009

Friday, May 15th, 2009

On the side of the (cliff) couch
Jim McSherry and i played little army
the green plastic kind frozen
expressions loaded
macHINe gUns
tanks not to scale

we played with our vivid imagination
in the tv newsglow of the vietnam news
103 dead will be shipped home this week a jump from 72
just last week
InspiRed by the army movies his DaD sat down to watch
the rabbit ears covered in tinfoil
constantly moved to get better reception
so hard to get them to stand up
on the carpet battlefield
the music from the MILLION DOLLAR MOVIE
always made me cry

neondusk319091031pm

children with guns…..Entry for March 17, 2009

Friday, May 15th, 2009

children with guns have given us hope
that we can surrender to God just by crossing the street
that we can kiss our children off to school
goodbye
one last time on the porch

the white sheet I cover you with
is death not goodnight
and it is better that you dream now forever
then to wake up again in this world
in your police taped crib in your classroom
and this earth overflowing with
hate

neondusk