Saturday, July 24, 2004

This is mostly Dan Bouchard's work, though there are small contributions from Christina and myself. I'll need to head back here to fix the line indents, but that'll have to be late at night with a pint or two.


Excuse me, ma'am, I'll have to check your purse.
Pardon me, sir, you'll have to leave that glazed donut here.
Gee, wouldn't it be cool if I saw the Clintons.
Gee, wouldn't it be cool if I met the star of Gigli for a beer.
Excuse me, ma'am, I'm going have to sniff
your pretty little shoes for bombs.
Pardon me, sir, you're going to need to put this hood over your head
while I bitch slap you.
I bet at lunch I'll go out and see Bill Clinton ordering chicken fingers
and crab rangoon.
I bet Michael Moore is sweating like a bastard out there; it's almost
Farenheit 90.

I oughta go down to the Fleet Center and protest like a cop!
I'll stand in the little sheep pen of chain link fence and razor wire
and shout at the delegates who are thinking of cocktails.
Only cops could get away with protesting in Boston like they did.
They put their lives on the line clubbing tree huggers
and spraying mace
into the eyes of the granola-packing protesters.
They're penned in next to the diesel fumes of buses. I wonder if
Barbara Streisand is here. I will carry a sign that says:
And she'll smile at me while a junior lieutenant sticks
and oak nightstick into my ribs.
Susan Sarandon is so hot. I'll wave my sign at her
that says I'LL VOTE FOR KERRY!
But I'm a realist, I watch the knees scrape and bleed in the melee.
I know Kerry, if elected, will have to make peace
with all the wack-jobs awaiting the second coming.

Wouldn't it be cool to meet Ziggy Marley on the train?
What would I say? I'm so not cool. "Hey, Ziggy."
"What's up."

The sausages are fantastic, eh? I mean just great!
Bet the RNC gets the message, gotta find new
vendors, can't have mine, they've been tested
and 60% approve the Democratic platform.

These are my vendors, and I gotta go get a big
sausage, 'cuz that's how we do it in

Win! Win! Win!

Oh lord, these are just wonderful fuckin' sausages....Oh
Mr Presumptive Nominee, may I get you one? Peppers?

I'm going to get out there and party like an anarchist.
I'll wear my best torn jeans and black tee-shirt.
Oh, Black Tea Society, I get it. I guess.
I hope I run into Katie Couric. "You know," I'll say,
"you're a real hero to bubbleheads nationwide."
I bet the delegates are just getting started
when Boston bars close at 1 am.
We'll all go back to John Kerry's place
and watch his favorite video where he kills
some Vietcong guy running into the jungle.
It will be late and I'll collapse on a couch.
Ted Kennedy will yawn, his pants button undone.
Al Gore will play the banjo.
Peter Jennings will ask me what I think of things.
Michael Dukakis will snore in a recliner. Hillary
will still be on the phone.
It will be time to head home. I will give
James Taylor a ride.

Flea on your donkey!
Waffling flip flop man
Uber brahmin!
Botox boy!

The whole fucking town will be destroyed
by the time the poets arrive
next week.

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

Poems for Guns


Have broken no thing
as abides the law of chance
the mind not wasted, the body
needs not be tinkered with for now
Once you've crisscrossed the same path
in a tireless pattern for years
the ship comes to rest
with its bow split in three or more


I can no longer sleep where I once slept. Who
can? Buttons on mattresses form around and
over new shapes. And should that same bed still
exist, it waits only for the next warm body
to keep the roll.


Glass-bottomed tales, lies in fact
hopefully kept in order


I held a spoon to the morning light
and no damage was done
I held a plate later to the full moon
and the neighbors were wild

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