767 Humor poems

I used an arrow to kill the spider. I used a steamroller to flatten the worm. For the ants I called in an air strike. Bee that found its way in through the screen: blowtorch. The mammals were easier— a bucket of water for submerging the cat, a poisoned word thrown to the dog. For love, only a kitchen match. That and a stove leaking gas and waiting until the dinner was good and burned.

the weather is hot on the back of my watch which is down at Finkelstein’s who is gifted with 3 balls but no heart, but you’ve got to understand when the bull goes down on the whore, the heart is laid aside for something else, and let’s not over-rate the obvious decency for in a crap game you may be cutting down some wobbly king of 6 kids and a hemorrhoid butt on his last unemployment check, and who is to say the rose is greater than the thorn? not I, Henry, and when your love gets flabby knees and prefers flat shoes, maybe you should have stuck it into something else like an oil well or a herd of cows. I’m too old to argue, I’ve gone with the poem and been k.o.’d with the old sucker-punch round after round, but sometimes I like to think of the Kaiser or any other fool full of medals and nothing else, or the first time we read Dos or Eliot with his trousers rolled; the weather is hot on the back of my watch which is down at Finkelstein’s, but you know what they say: things are tough all over, and I remember once on the bum in Texas I watched a crow-blast, one hundred farmers with one hundred shotguns jerking off the sky with a giant penis of hate and the crows came down half-dead, half-living, and they clubbed them to death to save their shells but they ran out of shells before they ran out of crows and the crows came back and walked around the pellets and stuck out their tongues and mourned their dead and elected new leaders and then all at once flew home to fuck to fill the gap. you can only kill what shouldn’t be there. and Finkelstein should be there and my watch and maybe myself, and I realize that if the poems are bad they are supposed to be bad and if they are good they are likewise supposed to be—although there is a minor fight to be fought, but still I am sad because I was in this small town somewhere in the badlands, way off course, not even wanting to be there, two dollars in my wallet, and a farmer turned to me and asked me what time it was and I wouldn’t tell him, and later they gathered them up for burning as if they were no better than dung with feathers, feathers and a little gasoline, and from the bottom of one pile a not-quite-dead crow smiled at me. it was 4:35 p.m.

A Well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below. A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; Joyfully he drew nigh, For from the cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky. He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree. There came a man from the house hard by At the Well to fill his pail; On the Well-side he rested it, And he bade the Stranger hail. "Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger?" quoth he, "For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. "Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne." "I have left a good woman who never was here." The Stranger he made reply, "But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why?" "St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time Drank of this crystal Well, And before the Angel summon'd her, She laid on the water a spell. "If the Husband of this gifted Well Shall drink before his Wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be Master for life. "But if the Wife should drink of it first,— God help the Husband then!" The Stranger stoopt to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again. "You drank of the Well I warrant betimes?" He to the Cornish-man said: But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head. "I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my Wife in the porch; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to Church."

He went to the city and goosed all the girls With a stall on his finger for whittling the wills To a clause in his favour and Come to me Sally, One head in my chambers and one up your alley And I am as old as my master. I followed him further and lost all my friends, The grease still thick on his fistful of pens. I laced up his mutton and paddled his lake In the game of Get-off-me and Just-for-my-sake And I am as old as my master. I sang in his service a farewell to sorrow With rolled black stockings, the bone and the marrow. The Law was a devil to cheat as you pleased As we knelt on the backs of the city girls’ knees And I am as old as my master. So back to the country where birds are squawking, With possets for pensions and witless talking Of walloped starvelings and soldiers’ fortunes From his nodding bench in the smothered orchards And I am as old as my master. Age turns the cheek of a buried scandal In a nightmare of cheese and a quarter of candle. When the servant is privy he’s good as a guest, The first to be carved to and last to be pressed And I am as old as my master. Country or city, no pleasure can last: It’s farewell to the future and beckon the past. Though he that we drink with is sometimes a fool, A single grey tooth may furnish a smile And I am as old as my master.

My wife went into the pantry for peaches but came out with a baby — I hadn’t noticed the house was pregnant, she said — it was crying, so I cried back — then she cried, the woman I barely know after sixteen years — why just the other day, she told me she’d always been afraid #2 pencils might be made of what they’re named — but even crying it was cute — pink and scrunchy-eyed — like a newt balloon someone had blown up until puffy and ready to pop — it was as if the universe decided it was time to act our age — that’s when we threw all our heroin out — took the high-wire down and stopped skeet shooting in the living room — and as much as I miss yelling Pull while stoned and standing on the edge of the air, looking into the abyssal fall I sorta desperately want, someone’s gotta change the diapers and burp the thing when it fills with swamp-gas or whatever that is — the miracle, you know, of birth is that my wife and I gave up hang gliding for making the nummy sound against the belly of the beast who showed up and took over — just as once, I shot the rapids, popped out, squirmed against my mother and destroyed every other future she might have lived but one — long before I could speak, I was cruel — for a few seconds, I let my mother believe I was everything she ever wanted — and even now, decades after my few perfect seconds as a baby, if I called, at the first unexpected brush of Hey, ma against her ear, she’d still be hoodwinked by the tidal pull of my voice on the ghost of a womb they long ago ripped out, that she was holding a full moon in her arms

It hain't no use to grumble and complane; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.— When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y rain's my choice. Men ginerly, to all intents— Although they're apt to grumble some— Puts most theyr trust in Providence, And takes things as they come— That is, the commonality Of men that's lived as long as me Has watched the world enugh to learn They're not the boss of this concern. With some , of course, it's different— I've saw young men that knowed it all, And didn't like the way things went On this terrestchul ball;— But all the same, the rain, some way, Rained jest as hard on picnic day; Er, when they railly wanted it, It mayby wouldn't rain a bit! In this existunce, dry and wet Will overtake the best of men— Some little skift o' clouds'll shet The sun off now and then.— And mayby, whilse you're wundern who You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to, And want it—out'll pop the sun, And you'll be glad you hain't got none! It aggervates the farmers, too— They's too much wet, er too much sun, Er work, er waitin' round to do Before the plowin' 's done: And mayby, like as not, the wheat, Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat, Will ketch the storm—and jest about The time the corn's a-jintin' out. These-here cy-clones a-foolin' round— And back'ard crops!—and wind and rain!— And yit the corn that's wallerd down May elbow up again!— They hain't no sense, as I can see, Fer mortuls, sech as us, to be A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents, And lockin' horns with Providence! It hain't no use to grumble and complane; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.— When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice.

If you asked an Elizabethan What are you on? he or she would have answered The earth, this terrestrial globe whereas today it means What medication are you taking? (Are you taking has less energy than What medication it is an anticlimax without a climax) And today What are you on about? would have sounded like What are you of thereabouts in? and will So what medications are you on? I am taking italics it pokes a hole in whatever is going to be so I can slip through and not have arms and legs all the time You've lost me and I'm not even an Elizabethan That's O.K. neither am I though both of us bestride this terrestrial globe and fain would lie down for the earth is a medication a giant pill we ride on like the aspirin in the poem I wrote in 1966 and didn't understand until last night or was it this morning A.M. and P.M. are medications I take one in the morning and one in the evening Some day people will look back at the twentieth century and think How backward they were the way some look back now at tribal societies and say But primitive life was so dirty how could you keep things clean? not knowing that tribal people lived in the Garden of Eden comparatively speaking That is they had more humanity than later people who traded theirs for technology so that those people who look back at Earth some day from a distant galaxy will not be people at all comparatively speaking they will be cue balls But this morning I am not in a billiard situation the sun is shining onto my house and the trees are feeling like their tops because they are still in the Garden of Eden that is the gentle endless hush of an endless mother to her endless newborn child Things are there covered with sparkles that have nothing to do with sunlight the way one night I got out of bed and found that I was covered with sparkles very small ones I wondered if I would be covered with sparkles the rest of my life and if other people had them But these are not the same sparkles that things have on them except the ocean sometimes at night By day the ocean moves away from where it was but a mountain does not Somewhere in between lies Hidden Valley where Grandpa comes out of his cabin and staggers around the dooryard then goes back inside where Grandma is holding a baking tin of fresh hot biscuits but she will give him none Give me some biscuits he cries but she smiles and shakes her head They are all for me she exults and then laughs she is only joking Grandpa sits down at the table and pretends to be dead revived only by die muffled thud of the biscuit tin Where's mah coffee he roars even though he sees it in the cup before him and Grandma says We're plumb out That's how the day begins in Hidden Valley But where are the grandchildren They are scattered about the world in jagged pieces that move like birds in spring with colors and speedometers on them Someday they will return to Hidden Valley and form another mountain to make Hidden Valley even more hidden when the waterfall closes over it You think I don't know where it is or is that just a ploy to get me to tell you? You are like the guy who looked all over for his hat and later learned it was on his head but it didn't mean anything until he realized he had a head and that the hat was both on and inside it and when he did it was not a rabbit that he pulled out but a rectangle in which the rabbit was imprisoned You don't want to be that guy, do you? You would rather be the rabbit when all along you could have been the waterfall We move ahead in our story to five years later then we move five years back because there is no story only a collection of events with no beginning, no end, and therefore no middle, it is all one big beginning, middle, and end every second and though you are in it you are also to the side like an actor waiting in the wings for the cue that will cause the stage to light up and expand though it is also the cue for the audience to rise and head for the exits, because they are the real players and you, it turns out, are part of the scenery propped up against a wall, gathering dust along your top ridge, for soon you will be transported to Hidden Valley and placed among the other mountains One of these mountains is the Earl of Essex covered with the crud of having galloped all the way across Wales and England nonstop Essex who dashed up the palace stairs and barged into Elizabeth's private chamber unannounced —where no man had ever set foot— midst the gasps and cries of her ladies-in-waiting and there it is his face on the front of his head and her face coming off her head and starting toward him because she knew right then his head would be severed from his body but what she did not know is that he too would end up in Hidden Valley raining down his sparkles upon the house of Grandma and Grandpa Are you enjoying your vacation Yes I am in fact so much that I don't even think of it as a vacation or as anything else and come to think of it I don't even think of it it's just the way things are How about you Yes I too am enjoying my vacation Well good Silence What you just said about your vacation I'm not sure I understand what you mean I didn't mean much of anything I guess The mountains around here have a way of making me not think very much maybe because they aren't thinking at all who knows and I tend to become like whatever I'm around But you're always around air do you turn into air Yes I'm always air What about Grandma and Grandpa are you turning into them No I can't turn into them I already am them Well that is very interesting but I have to scoot along now And a fine day to you as well Ireland rose up on the horizon backlit by history but Hidden Valley was too powerful it made Ireland sink back down though the voices of Ireland could be heard in the distance some singing others laughing and some wailing and scolding and then they too faded when Grandpa brandished his lips at them for he wished to sing himself and all alone on the veranda of his own personality the one built partly by him and partly by the celestial carpenters who found his scratchy gurgling caterwauling arias to be as astonishing as he found them to be beautiful and moving— arias that caused tears to gush forth from the sky you could see when you looked up into his eyes not long after you were born the sky at night and professional wrestling was on TV Antonino Rocca bounded around the ring evading horrible huge guys who fought dirty the kind you would find only in New York City when it was in black and white little Antonino who looked like a short-order cook in a diner but who dodged and slid and leaped so fast the horrible big guys couldn't catch him but when they did, Ow! Get away, Antonino! and he came back to life and slithered free and hurled the big guys down and one-two-three boom they were pinned and once more he smiled at people like us out in the middle of nowhere prompting Grandpa to clear his throat and say It's time for bed it's way past time and it was but we were hidden outside of time and no one would know because they were visible inside of time I was happy in Hidden Valley happy enough and I'm happy I once lived there Maybe I'll find myself there again someday even though the mountains will be gone and the rest changed beyond all recognition

When it comes to clothes, make an allowance for the unexpected. Be sure the spare in the trunk of your station wagon with wood paneling isn’t in need of repair. A simple jean jacket says Hey, if you aren’t trying to smuggle rare Incan coins through this peaceful little town and kidnap the local orphan, I can be one heck of a mellow kinda guy. But no matter how angry a man gets, a smile and a soft stroke on his bicep can work wonders. I learned that male chests also have nipples, warm and established— green doesn’t always mean envy. It’s the meadows full of clover and chicory the Hulk seeks for rest, a return to normal. And sometimes, a woman gets to go with him, her tiny hands correcting his rumpled hair, the cuts in his hand. Green is the space between water and sun, cover for a quiet man, each rib shuttling drops of liquid light.

This person would be an animal. This animal would be large, at least as large as a workhorse. It would chew cud, like cows, having several stomachs. No one could follow it into the dense brush to witness its mating habits. Hidden by fur, its sex would be hard to determine. Definitely it would discourage investigation. But it would be, if not teased, a kind, amiable animal, confiding as a chickadee. Its intelligence would be of a high order, neither human nor animal, elvish. And it would purr, though of course, it being a house, you would sit in its lap, not it in yours.

Not reading English, and hearing about a new English thriller that hasn’t been translated. Seeing a cold beer when it’s hot out, and not being able to afford it. Having an idea that you can’t encapsulate in a line of Hölderlin, the way the professors do.