Captain Obvious

Captain Obvious flexes his right forearm, examines it,
says, I’m the kind of person who tells it like it is.
Captain Obvious is made of cottage cheese.
Captain Obvious smells like motor oil. One time,
he took a drive down a long, long highway,
and as he drove, he wrote every song on the radio.


Border Arrest May Be Connected with Target Credit Card Hack

On the border between Target and Walmart,
on the border between Costco and Sam’s Club,
on the border between desire and fulfillment,

somebody has your number.

In a conversion van with a seascape on the side,
in a putty-colored, green-cursored computer,
in a satellite dish pulling signals from space,

somebody has your number.

There is nothing you can do;
you will never rest again
now that you know,

somebody has your number.



If it’s Tuesday p.m., check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.


Algebra of Eating

Inside, I am as wide as a
cruller, but only half as sweet.
It’s best not to eat pigeon
until you’ve eaten crow.

What’s eating you? Can you
name it, your particular octopus?
What separates edible from non?
Is it all just a trick of the light?

It’s necessary, some type of order,
so we stop eating once we hit plate,
or at least table; we would hurt
our mouths on the crust of the Earth.

It’s exhausting, though, the sorting:
Eat a Baby Ruth but not its wrapper,
and eschew actual babies. If you must,
you can lightly chew their toes. This is

acceptable. It is acceptable, also,
to eat a cow, but not a dog.
I spend my days working on this
algebra of eating, this formula

that keeps me upright, somewhat
in the world’s good graces, though
my jaws don’t know the difference—
they’re just looking for the next bite.



If it’s Tuesday p.m., check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. Also, a programming note: I’ll be writing every day in October (no specific theme) but will go back to posting only on Tuesdays. I have limited firepower, here — September was fun, but now it’s time to rebuild my bank of submittables and not previously publish them each and every day.


It’s a Simple Song

Sometimes, I sing out loud
on the telephone wire.
Sometimes, I clap my hands.

I had a place somewhere
among the bullfrogs once;
it was low there, and I sang

low. When I’m with the
little birds, I sing high. If you
need to know your place,

ask the porcupine. He knows
your name; he mutters it
to himself, just like mine.



After “A Place in the Choir” by Bill Staines. Another great request from my friend Jud! The song begins at 4:20, but the intro is pretty funny. His impression of a porcupine is not to be missed.

Also, if it’s still Tuesday p.m./wee hours of Wednesday, check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.


Open Link Eve

I’m taking this one off.
I have too many bees in the head.
A beard of bees. Bread and cheese?
I’d love a sandwich, thanks.

Too many cows, and I cannot
churn butter, not with all these
flies in the ointment, a whole
continent of lies; they buzz

the same as truths, only louder.
Louder, you say? I suppose
I could yell, but when I’m yellow
like this, and underwater,

I’m not sure it matters much. Yello?
Yello? Now I am at the last payphone
on Earth, with a fistful  of quarters
and nothing left to say.




If it’s Tuesday p.m., check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.