Poetry is a blop that governs the deerk.
A conniving wave of mop justified.
It flavors the tender gate keepers of atom pie.
Eating sliverously it touches the peak
with musical patois, patty cake, serious sneezes
and command of abrupt. That is it’s
words tiramisu, terrible kid of punk nodes
causing kissing of back notes and musical feezsickles.
Thus acaputrids love it dissecting its outwards
with its innards. But it sur-paces its stiff sinoids.
Vowels, bowels, consnickets and tongue twasters.
We all love its gup, or those of us who read its stenchbuds.
Snick it? Oh ancient mashed up muse.
Poet DC is at base of our bastion.
The reverand of gold. The river run of old.
Beep music. Yes said is no. It fictional fantasizes fun.
Have sum. Add more to your plunkit.
Merry dine. A stanza in line saves nine.
Such are the kissing in the dark.
larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / from Foxhole Prayers, poems 2009
(flip card above is of Judson Crews, from the set by Carl Christensen,
1980, on leftover cover stock from Judson’s The Noose).