where is jack cole? will you make us more poetry?

jack cole sleeps with the well-earned rest of fishes
he sleeps amid the rumples and accidents of his form
now upon the peaks and waves, now deeply submerged in them
and when he wakes he shall make us poetry from this
as deftly as the origami folder folds a swan

Jack Cole is bowling ball
rolling into the gutter,
fast as snot and butter
and that is finally all.

jack cole can mash potatos with gracile ease
and he can shimmy like his sister Kate,
but who on earth will honor him for these
mere talents and assorted common skills?

But in one capering grace our good jack rises
high and higher, far above the ruck and crowd
to eminence and honor, fame and prizes.
Our jack, good jack, can slapdash poetry.

But not today; he stumbles like an ill-fit shoe.
Mayhaps he will tomorrow, when he's a bit less blue.

each bowling ball contains a universe
or three;
warped, symmetrical, dark perfection.

the golden ovulation of
nasal annoyance makes it smoother,
hurtling down the trench
towards short white hips,
double red chokers, tipple,
then fall.

a glance at the scoreboard says
that is all!

Rematch?

O, earless, eyeless, artless ball,
Perfect in thy simple 3-holed face,
Polished, gleaming, weighty, all
So still and poised, a perfect sphere!

Rumble for us, rush and roll your way
The alley all adown, and dash the pins
Aside in wild, abandoned, perfect play.
Make us return in bowling poetry.

For there is much gravid strength in you
And an aim that is no aim, but true.

the poet laureate of portland
has left us, to our own devices
rusty and unweildy as they may be.

an egg beater for an eye
and a tin cup for an ear
i visualize fat bees,
on ile

without a wall to bounce
the bowling ball can't flounce.

i have too many records
to listen to today:
i have so very many
chartpop apologists to slay.

I am El Cid.
I am the flipped lid.

Jackdaw, jack knife, jackanapes,
jack o'lantern, auld jackeen,
Jack frost, jack tar, every man jack,
also known as plain jack cole
was last seen, nose against a goldfish bowl,
walleyed at the golden little devils,
yearning for to tuck one past
his memory of whiskers, down the hatch.

Outside his door, fiddlers, cats,
assorted gleemen and cobblers sit
huddled together for warmth,
utterly disconsolate and glum
waiting for jack to turn his wits
away from langourous pretty fish.
Don't say they wait in vain.

Haiku-pie-ku

Fish sticks satisfy,
but not like hot, steaming pie;
Tonight, I go forth.

Bobby Seale's bbq sauce recipes
are but instructions for serenity.

From here I can hear the potatos sprout.
Although their eyes are searching,
they're serenely sealed, too,
against the bars, the bees, the queues.
Down there I see my toes. They are my future.

Station Identification

In silence, you can see forever.
In stillness, you can reach the heavens.
In quietude, you can greet tomorrow.
In serenity, you can wave yesterday goodbye.

And now, we return you to your moment.

From darkness and afar a station,
unidentifiable, plays in my car
with talk of heaven, tomorrow, forever.

God has the best parking spots,
I hear. God holds me in his hand,
may deign one day to squeeze.

This God of nighttime, darkness, radio,
In quietude I hear the frogs take up
the repetition of His holy name.

Scarlet braces and a cow-licked pate,
His cuff buttons in the corn pone,
You couldn't sell this man a cell phone;
Offer what long-distance rate you will.

Over What Long Distance She Will

Corn pone? she asked, innocently;
Why it has been many a year.
and far from here.
lips and lips and lips ago
that i have tasted that.

Vertigo? she thought, methodically
I can turn my kaleidoscope,
and you will be rearranged;
Tiny glass persona, locked in my field of vision
limited by a tubal universe,
and simple machinery.

Upon a hill, she is held, softly
above the lights.
Lips and lips and lips,
for now are sleeping,
Simple warmth and bouncing notes
fall from the air upon her,
He dances.

Lights in eyes, eyes in hearts,
Together.

and then they all lezzed up.

small ode to jack cole (epitaph for a thread)

this tiny verse
patters like rain
on tin roofs;

slides over monchichi
like a puff of wind,
rests in peace;
wordlessly.

no bowling ball,
no manatee;
here he lies,
tangled in poetry.

!