Tag: bugs

“to bed a cricket / stroke my goatee”

Joseph M. GeraceLeave a comment

Wikipedia Poem, No. 666

samara
“Estragon sees the chicken bones on the ground and stares at them greedily.”

 

 

to bed a cricket
stroke my goatee

i dance from side to side now
furrow my brown house

sparrow flutters in a fruit bowl
with whom am i arguing

crickets then go to bed
obsess over critics

crickets and poets both
lord over their own right

hands squeeze the toe of a boot by a tree
on a country road so they can be close to me

its inevitable yes she can be too
she can force it upon herself

space and space again
deprive him ommatidia

smile and she’ll slip an oven mitt
over critics over her right hand

i squeeze the thin lords quaking line
it must be caressed by neon pliers

i love reality with my waist again
and again deprive him space

deprive him teeth and smiles i slip
an oven mitt over the critics oh lord over all

Lemniscate of Booth, at Speed

Joseph M. GeraceLeave a comment

Wikipedia Poem, No. 356

W536
“We search for riches deep within the bowels of the earth where the spirits of the dead have their abode, as though the part we walk upon is not sufficiently bounteous and productive.” Pliny the Elder

It is. Are you?

or as a result
english pulling
verb from latin
grow property et cetera to fall
to someone as pain
from defective forms

Where do you want to go today?

an alternative verb
from the late 1570s
unless much growth
modern french noun from
advertising to be now-obsolete
grow by increments
of property of et cetera
until much many ofs

Why wait?

as it happens
in excrement
property possession et cetera
from the english verb accrue
by increments
of property pissant et cetera from
giants an old
french noun because there grows
property et cetera
from latin
accrescere accrescent accroître acreue
by unwitting we gain we fall into shape
into cord’s web

What would you do for a Klondike bar?

Wikipedia Poem, No. 125

Joseph M. GeraceLeave a comment

 

You say
puff pastry you say
tax credit is a bulldog

by now she’s
probably lost in traffic
skin darker than guns
my father’s obsessed

it will be hungry
that guy who
makes hot sauce

climbs up my forefinger and into
whatever the girls’ mortal wound —
And I’m all like, bent, reaching
raise my hand to the horizon, beside

el niño spirit; and the exploded
my palm — safety — I straighten, &
down into the garbage where I roach

the Willis Tower, comparing, &
the vile, beautiful blattaria leaves me
and scales its black terrace and ponders
its sudden, liberal transformation — soon

as a way to juxtapose the mundane
condition the banal, blue
body; the salted, post-, uncombed

She didn’t even
take it
or gibberish in a cafeteria line
or bleeding all over Italy.

with Stevie Ray Vaughan

Includes four lines from "I love winter nights..." by Paul Ferrell,
     published in "The Cosby Show" (2015) by Water of Life Press.