I have come to the decision that I only feel good before I get on stage, while I’m on stage, and in the few minutes of applause after I am done.

All my good feelings dissolve a few moments after that.

Isn’t that known as Janis Joplin syndrome?

THE END OF THE WORLD

The best part of
The end of the world
Was the moment
Just before it happened

When
The ground and horizon that had been clear before us
slipped a bit
and we said
hey,
This is it, this must be it

And it was grand
because
for that one second we knew just what was going to happen
We knew that we could expect things to change
Because change was inevitable and unavoidable
and sex was over but so were war and famine
and we thought all we had to go on
in the few minutes we had left
were tenderness and a refusal to give up –

But then

the shock

to find

the end was instead so
quiet,
low clarinet
instead of tympani,
that
we weren’t sure it had happened
until long after it was over
until the morning we woke up and saw the sky turn bright white

We turned up our faces toward it
And they shone like hubcaps
Rolling away from a wreck
And we couldn’t eat breakfast together and
We didn’t kiss goodbye and we barely
Recognized each other
As we went about our business

And that was the true end of the world

Or at least
of my part of it

Today has been filled with work, from writing to cleaning in the basement to helping my uncle set up his computer (translated, setting up my uncle’s computer).

I also had a sleepless night and a nap this morning.

It strikes me that I also had a productive week at work, getting several things done I was unable to get to earlier in the month.

Plus I paid bills today and I think I’m gonna go to the movies tonight and poetry tomorrow.

And I played guitar for the first time in ages, working up a fingerstyle version of Graham Parker’s “You Can’t Be Too Strong.”

I do believe this is what you call an improvement.

Today has been filled with work, from writing to cleaning in the basement to helping my uncle set up his computer (translated, setting up my uncle’s computer).

I also had a sleepless night and a nap this morning.

It strikes me that I also had a productive week at work, getting several things done I was unable to get to earlier in the month.

Plus I paid bills today and I think I’m gonna go to the movies tonight and poetry tomorrow.

And I played guitar for the first time in ages, working up a fingerstyle version of Graham Parker’s “You Can’t Be Too Strong.”

I do believe this is what you call an improvement.

The new Zero Point Zero is up here.

I’m back, at last. Enjoy.

Bed time.

The new Zero Point Zero is up here.

I’m back, at last. Enjoy.

Bed time.

In other news, the “orgasm” quiz suggested that Jim Morrison would give me an orgasm with a vibrator, and that it would be very good.

Considering how much I loathe Jim Morrison, this would seem to be inaccurate, to say the least.

In other news, the “orgasm” quiz suggested that Jim Morrison would give me an orgasm with a vibrator, and that it would be very good.

Considering how much I loathe Jim Morrison, this would seem to be inaccurate, to say the least.

Becky Henderson — AKA newpoetik.

She’s — wait for it — 30 today.

Happy Birthday to you, Ms. Henderson!

Know what song is really, really good?

“Rocky Mountain High,” by John Denver.

EMPTY BED

sometimes the bed
is bigger than I can stand

I’ve spilled a cup of stains
a day over these sheets

I want to ask a question of the empty room
but it talks so loudly I can’t get a word in

so instead I’ve chewed the pillows
until I’m dried spitless and mute

I wake up at all hours with the same thought each time —
dream is one letter away from dread

write it all down, the therapist says
but even then I can’t keep it down

the bed gets bigger every day
its oak bones growing long after death

a dead man’s hair and nails
sleepwalk on beyond him

I scratch my face, tear out my hair
and never awaken at all

EMPTY BED

sometimes the bed
is bigger than I can stand

I’ve spilled a cup of stains
a day over these sheets

I want to ask a question of the empty room
but it talks so loudly I can’t get a word in

so instead I’ve chewed the pillows
until I’m dried spitless and mute

I wake up at all hours with the same thought each time —
dream is one letter away from dread

write it all down, the therapist says
but even then I can’t keep it down

the bed gets bigger every day
its oak bones growing long after death

a dead man’s hair and nails
sleepwalk on beyond him

I scratch my face, tear out my hair
and never awaken at all

sometimes the bed
is bigger than I can stand

I’ve spilled a cup of stains
a day over these sheets

I want to ask a question of the empty room
but it talks so loudly I can’t get a word in

so instead I’ve chewed the pillows
until I’m dried spitless and mute

I wake up at all hours with the same thought each time —
dream is one letter away from dread

write it all down, the therapist says
but even then I can’t keep it down

the bed gets bigger every day as if
oak could still grow after death

when I thought nothing could

Ain’t working tonight…I’m up again, dear lord…

Got the local “hahd rawk station” on for shits and giggles. This popped out.

CLASSIC ROCK POEM

This
Classic rock poem was written in
A suburb
Safely tucked away from the edge
Of the city of the damned

With its grey hair all once sexy still askew
It speaks of wannabe memories of same old
Used to be’s and
Shoulda beens

This classic rock poem
Owns more clothes than I do
Drinks cancer like cold water
And won’t admit to aging anymore than
Complacency

This classic rock poem
Eats a Jaguar for breakfast and wears
A safety pin on its sleeve in a half assed sort of
Exploited way

This classic rock poem
Wants you to take it home and put on
A kettle full of Scotch
Soothe its motel tan with shredded ticket stubs
Listen to every goddamn thing it’s ever said while
Pretending not to notice it’s bogarting your last joint

This classic rock poem is completely
Together
It’s got everything
From gymnofinger ragged ass string twisting runs
To a whole lotta portent
It sees a woman over there and wants to
Call her a girl

This classic rock poem loves you
This classic rock poem needs you
This classic rock poem is sure you’ll sleep with it
Just because you always do

This classic rock poem is such a classic rocker
It doesn’t even bother
To rock

MASSACHUSETTS COYOTE

Ten o’clock. I drag the last of the trash

from the basement, stuff it all into the rolling barrel,
pull everything out to the curb. Walking back
I spot yellow eyes over by the shed. I think it’s a
dog, but instead, it’s a coyote, all alone,

wary but unafraid, staring me down. In the dark
I can just see the smoke-smudged smears
down his flanks.
I turn my back and head inside;

it’s just not that unusual anymore. Thirty years ago,
it would have been unheard of — coyotes
were a Western thing, almost mythic. Twenty years ago
we started to see them, cat-eaters, survivors,

exotic reminders of something we’d forgotten.
Now they’re just part of the fabric,
and the night that goes by without
a single yip is worthy of remark.

The news is on in the living room. Someone’s
dead, someone’s dying,
someone’s angry, afraid,
sick, distressed, starving, poison is everywhere;

it’s all going to hell and there’s nothing
to be done. I sit back in the big chair
and listen hard to the night: hoping the coyote
has something to say. After all,

they came
all this way
from out west
for something.