Cut and Paste
The Cutter was sharp. He was handsome and bright,
and he was a criminal, workin’ by night.
He was known far and wide for his devious capers;
he cut up girls’ hearts like he was cuttin’ up papers.
Now, Paster McSticky, a man twice his size,
had fooled many men with his terrible lies,
and he liked stickin’ things where they didn’t belong.
Not a crime, I suppose, but still definitely wrong.
As their fortunes would have it, these men of the West
met up in the desert and thought it’d be best
if they joined up together to form one bad crew
and terrorize people with scissors and glue.
So Cutter and Paster rode all through the land,
stealin’ with cutters and paste in their hands.
After three months, the sheriff of town took ‘em in.
He asked, “where’s yer loot?” but they didn’t give in.
So he hung ‘em next day in the square, but it’s said
that there’s no way that Cutter and Paster are dead.
They’re still robbin’ today, ridin’ wild and free…
just press Ctrl+X and then hit Ctrl+V.
Five-Minute Poetry – Set 1
–Clouds (#1)–
When it rains,
the clouds commit mass suicide.
They become their tears,
wasting themselves on the earth
and leaving their wet juices all over it.
When they’re gone, the air is fresh and clear
and everyone is happy…
but the sky is still blue.
–Matches (#2)–
Our love is like a book of matches.
Look, it catches! Watch it burn!
But no match that’s based on matches
can resist Time’s cold, wet snatches.
–The Exhaler (#3)–
I heard of an oxygen panic
and took it upon myself
to maintain the balance of the atmosphere.
After I carefully exhale, I shout
“Ah, Breath! I have freed you!”
and admire my own fantastic resourcefulness!
–Being in Love (#4)–
Being with you feels like being alone,
only never so lonely.
When I am with you,
I am you,
you are me,
and we are not “we” at all.
–a list of things my father gave to me (#5)–
a cold name
half of a face
grab-bag genes
a simplified old tree
right-brained eyes
hand-eye coordination
nightmares
a handful of childhood
and a phoenix sore
–dust (#6)–
stay still too long,
and it will gather on you.
tiny weights, little pressures,
light at first, but slowly heavy
heavier
heaviest
splintering your knees like wood
busting your back like cardboard
until you crumple in a cloud
and can move no more.
–The Blame (#7)–
When the summer gets old
and the weather gets cold
and the leaves start to fall,
Blame the sun! we are told.
But there’s no sense at all
in that scientist’s call,
for the sun is not cold;
how could it cause the fall?
–Some Roads Not Taken (#8)–
While making a choice concerning two roads and a yellow wood,
I tripped on you and fell in love.
We left both roads and hiked into the trees to make out,
and that’s what really made all the difference.
–Adults (#9)–
Adults complain a lot
about headaches and heartaches,
mortgages and marriages,
and they think they’ve got it bad.
What they forget
is that they sleep the same sleep
and breathe the same breath
as another human being
with the same heart,
the same mind,
and the same spirit.
And still they act like
spoiled children
who can’t make up their minds.
–pointless (#10)–
you think
just because
you’ve left no clues,
you’re being clever.
just because
you’ve got us stumped,
you’re being subtle.
just because
you have created,
you’re being creative.
just because
you’ve made a mess,
you’ve got it made.
a poem
without a point
might be a poem,
but it’s still pointless.
a well-organized Mess of Words
take a few Words
and make a Mess.
stretch a Short one across the kitchen.
hang a Wet one from the door
and wipe an Oily one on the floors
until they all glisten with meaning.
chew on a Crunchy one while sitting in bed
and leave the Crumbs there.
drop a Sharp one into your sheets
and a Smelly one into your pillowcase
so you will dream about them at night.
also, hide a Puzzling one under the bed
to share with the curious monsters.
swallow One without chewing.
chew Two without swallowing.
then throw Three in the trash can.
take some Words of different colors
and put them into a can.
call it “Paint”
and make a “Painting.”
don’t be afraid of getting Brown on your skin
or White in your hair
or Yellow on your teeth.
take Them to the lake
and toss Them into the water.
watch the fish swim up to investigate
and laugh as they take the Bait.
toss a Crumbly one onto the carpet.
rub it in until it’s finely Ground.
take the leftover Dust
in the palm of your hand
and blow it out the window
so it can sprinkle down onto the heads
of the gray people walking below.
leave a Lovely one on your girlfriend’s pillow
before you start making breakfast out of The Rest.
she’ll appreciate the gesture
and probably give you an extra Kiss.
give a Pretty one to your mother
and Another to your sister
when they come to visit
so they’ll remember what they saw.
(but it won’t stop them from being disgusted.)
leave Tough ones in your pocket
until they get Nice and Soft.
then, offer them to your friends
and make sure you tell them how tasty they are.
(the Words, i mean.)
send Something to nasa
so they can rocket it to space for you.
tell everyone you know,
“i said Something to the moon.”
leave them all over the city
in inconspicuous places
like Under people’s hats
or On the bus.
carry one on the sole of your shoe
like an old piece of gum.
kick something
and stick to it.
hop around on one leg.
tell people it’s because of the Word in your sole.
press Sticky ones to your skin,
ones that leave strands of goo when
you pull them away.
then jump into the dirt.
plant a Word.
watch it grow.
pick the Fruit when it’s ripe.
put it in jars
and leave it awhile
until the apocalypse comes
and makes everyone hungry.
then
take some of these Messy Words
put them in order
and hang them in a frame
where everyone can see them
and admire them.
“oh, what a well-organized Mess of Words,”
they’ll say.
“i think i’d like a few Words of my own.”
and they’ll go to the corner store
and ask the bald man behind the counter,
“may i have some Words?”
and he will say
“sure”
and then that person will make their own Words
and make their own Mess
and put More into frames
and hang Them in your houses
or on skyscrapers
or benches
or clouds floating past
so everyone can admire their genius and say
“what a well-organized Mess of Words”
and want some of their own.
it could be a Messy world
because of you.
Sonnet 29 – Sometimes I Think of You
Sometimes I think of you and see my face.
Sometimes I want your hand and take my own.
Sometimes we occupy a single space.
Sometimes I think it’s all I’ve ever known.
Sometimes, when I get up to sleep at night,
I think I see you breathing next to me.
Sometimes, when I turn off the bedroom lights,
I think I hear you watching silently.
Sometimes my reason tells me I’m insane,
but maybe I’m in love with the idea.
Sometimes I tell myself I’m not okay;
at other times, I can’t be so sincere.
Sometimes I can’t forget you’re not two-sided
when every time you’re here, I am divided.
Girl #3
She led a pink and ivory bicycle out of the Sixties
with a few books tossed into the front basket
and hammered on the crosswalk button
while grinning.
beep-beep beep-beep
beep-beep
beep-
beep
Sonnet 27 – Done With Love
This love is quizzical. This love’s bizarre.
And I have had enough. I’m through with you!
I’ll have no more long make-outs in the car,
despite the fact I’ve nothing else to do.
I’m sick of sunshine, let me have the dark!
And I won’t waste it holding to your hand
and letting you lead me around the park
like some poor dog you found. Give me dry land,
and not this ocean, not this salty sea.
I’m queasy; I could vomit up my heart.
And maybe if I did, you’d let me be
because I could not love without that part.
And still, I think you might pursue me yet…
No, I’ve moved on. With nothing to regret!
Sonnet 26 – Chasing Love
It seems that love’s a nasty, tricky thing.
The more you chase, the more it runs away.
And when you think it’s cornered, love grows wings
and soars among the clouds as if to play.
With haste, you make a makeshift aeroplane
and burst into the sky. Love spots your craft,
and as you close the distance, as you strain,
it shouts a laugh! and darts away; too fast!
And now, your air machine’s run dry of fuel.
It tumbles down, the pieces snapping off,
and you’re alone to drop, to face the cruel,
hard smack of sunbaked clay, the bottom rock.
…But just before you give away your soul,
love comes to you, at last, and makes you whole.
Fountain of Recycled Youth
I visited the beaches of California
and made a discovery.
The people there are works of art
whose youth never fades.
Curious to know
what could preserve them,
I stepped into the ocean.
It sneezed.
A wave rushed over my bare feet,
swirling fine sand and fragments of seashells
about my ankles.
That wave also carried seconds,
minutes,
tiny portions of time
that flopped on the beach, struggling
like misguided baby turtles
to reach dry land.
After the rush,
the world stopped.
The sand settled.
The water became clear and still.
Then,
just as it had come,
the wave reversed its motion,
raking up the sand and shells
like autumn leaves,
sweeping them back into the crushing mouth
of the churning surf.
With them flowed the time.
The moments tried to grasp the shifting mud,
but the wet beast sucked them in
and grinded them to pieces.
I saw it happen again,
again,
again.
I felt the cycle of the ocean
and made my discovery:
The beaches of California are places
where youth and beauty live forever because
just as the ocean rolls in with age,
it sucks that time back out
and indefinitely regurgitates the same three seconds.
Luna
Luna.
You.
(some say stone)
but truly queen
or the great winking eye
of a devouring demon
possessing the atmosphere
You.
majesty of bright-eyed devils
bejeweled faces
turned all in to worship You
from above
from below
united in praying
You.
mighty weeping eye
(tears of milk soak
black velvet)
your servants cry for You
and cry for judgment
against
daylight and its children(us)
You.
rally Your troops
(Your black legions
of flickering Cyclopes
Your dark priests
loathsome bishops
Your astral apocalyptic
army of candles)
You.
wide and wet
stare at
us(tiny creation)
without our blue barrier
exposed
shaken
alone
parasites
in Your kingdom
Luna.
Your gaze
is the warpath.
Sonnet 25 – Perfect Date
With prepaid card (a graduation gift)
in hand, I catch the swinging door for you.
We sit together at our booth for two,
and compromise between our tastes and thrift.
I’m never wealthy; you don’t seem to mind.
We tell the waitress that we’d like to share,
and as we wait, we hope no one will stare
at us, the happy pair at table nine.
You hold my hand beneath the table while
we split our little steak in equal parts.
You end up eating mine, but it’s okay;
I ate your potatoes. I see you smile,
and suddenly I can’t control my heart;
I’m smiling, too… It’s such a perfect date!
