767 Humor poems

Tune yr sandwich to the key of C Make biscuits in kitchen B Miss Scarlet with her lead pipe Waits behind the cupboard door Clubs one from the other limp Only to begin again innocent & nothing to do but gather into Legion gather into constellation Coming along then a spider its web Holds the walls together holds the floor Up gathers toward a central point Mean & distribution derivation To insert a thumb & see what sticks Past the earth’s crust cirrus And acidic enough to spoon fork but Chew & eat & swallow digesting the fact That nine wonders hope the clouds have Answers hope the clouds have

Oh! had I now an overcoat, For I am nearly freezing; My head and lungs are stopped with cold, And often I am sneezing. And, too, while passing through the street, Where merchants all are greeting, They say, young man this is the coat That you should wear to meeting. Then, looking down upon my feet, For there my boots are bursting, With upturned heels and grinning toes, With tacks which long were rusting. Ah! how they view my doeskin pants With long and crooked stitches, They say, young man would you not like To have some other breeches? My head is also hatless too, The wind is swiftly blowing, They say, young man will you not freeze? See ye not how it’s snowing? And now they take me by the hand, And lead me toward the store, And some are pulling down the coats Before I reach the door. So walk I in, their goods to price, To quench a thirst that’s burning, And freely would I buy a coat, But nothing I am earning. They say to me, I should have known, That winter time was coming, When I was roaming through the park, With birds around me humming. Their logic’s true, I must confess, And all they say is pleasant; But did I know that I would have No overcoat at present? To satisfy these craving Jews, To buy I am not able, For it is more than I can do To meet my wants at table. Therefore my skin will toughly grow, Will grant to me this favor, That I may learn to stand as much As little Jack, the sailor. And if I live till winter’s passed, Though nature’s harps unstringing, I then will fly to yon woodland To hear the oak trees singing. Then I will not on hero’s fame, Ride swiftly on to victory, Although my saddle may be made Of cotton sacks or hickory. But if I die, farewell to all, Oh! who will tell the story, That I have lived a noble life. And now gone home to glory? Yes, who will chant a song of praise For me—who will be weeping— When I have yielded to the grave, And ’mid the dead am sleeping? But some will ask, “how did he die? It was without my knowing; Was it because he caught a cold, Last year when it was snowing?” The answer now comes hurling back, In words I cannot utter, It was not by a cold alone, But partly bread and butter.

Words shouting, singing, smiling, frowning— Sense lacking. Ah, nothing, more obscure than Browning, Save blacking.

for Charles Simic Like a monstrous snail, a toilet slides into a living room on a track of wet, demanding to be loved. It is impossible, and we tender our sincerest regrets. In the book of the heart there is no mention made of plumbing. And though we have spent our intimacy many times with you, you belong to an unfortunate reference, which we would rather not embrace ... The toilet slides away ...

A wolf is at the Laundromat, it's not a wary stare-wolf, it's short and fat, it tips its hat, unlike a scary glare-wolf. It combs its hair, it clips its toes, it is a fairly rare wolf, that's only there to clean its clothes— it is a wash-and-wear-wolf.

Has them in every room of her house, wall hangings, statues, paintings, quilts and blankets, ark lampshades, mobiles, Christmas tree ornaments, t-shirts, sweaters, necklaces, books, comics, a creamer, a sugar bowl, candles, napkins, tea-towels and tea-tray, nightgown, pillow, lamp. Animals two-by-two in plaster, wood, fabric, oil paint, copper, glass, plastic, paper, tinfoil, leather, mother-of-pearl, styrofoam, clay, steel, rubber, wax, soap. Why I cannot ask, though I would like to know, the answer has to be simply because. Because at night when she lies with her husband in bed, the house rocks out into the bay, the one that cuts in here to the flatlands at the center of Texas. Because the whole wood structure drifts off, out under the stars, beyond the last lights, the two of them pitching and rolling as it all heads seaward. Because they hear trumpets and bellows from the farther rooms. Because the sky blackens, but morning finds them always safe on the raindrenched land, bird on the windowsill.

It's often those who talk a streak on world affairs and love and peace who seem to love and peace the least.

I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title. It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now so immediately the poem has my attention, like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve. And I like the first couple of stanzas, the way they establish this mode of self-pointing that runs through the whole poem and tells us that words are food thrown down on the ground for other words to eat. I can almost taste the tail of the snake in its own mouth, if you know what I mean. But what I’m not sure about is the voice, which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans, but other times seems standoffish, professorial in the worst sense of the word like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face. But maybe that’s just what it wants to do. What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas, especially the fourth one. I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges which gives me a very clear picture. And I really like how this drawbridge operator just appears out of the blue with his feet up on the iron railing and his fishing pole jigging—I like jigging— a hook in the slow industrial canal below. I love slow industrial canal below. All those l’s. Maybe it’s just me, but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem. I mean how can the evening bump into the stars? And what’s an obbligato of snow? Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets. At that point I’m lost. I need help. The other thing that throws me off, and maybe this is just me, is the way the scene keeps shifting around. First, we’re in this big aerodrome and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles, which makes me think this could be a dream. Then he takes us into his garden, the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose, though that’s nice, the coiling hose, but then I’m not sure where we’re supposed to be. The rain and the mint green light, that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper? Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery? There’s something about death going on here. In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here is really two poems, or three, or four, or possibly none. But then there’s that last stanza, my favorite. This is where the poem wins me back, especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse. I mean we’ve all seen these images in cartoons before, but I still love the details he uses when he’s describing where he lives. The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard, the bed made out of a curled-back sardine can, the spool of thread for a table. I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work night after night collecting all these things while the people in the house were fast asleep, and that gives me a very strong feeling, a very powerful sense of something. But I don’t know if anyone else was feeling that. Maybe that was just me. Maybe that’s just the way I read it.

His superpower was that his testicles manufactured sperm with exclusively X chromosomes & that was ironic because not only was he a beast to women but his 40 baby girls grew up seeking men like the father they barely saw unless they went to his studio to be painted which wasn’t OK with their mothers who were not only jealous but guilty of giving birth to girls who were products of an X-chromosome-making monster & would soon suffer at the hands of other monsters with X- type sperm thereby assuring the continuation of suffering & meanwhile all the girls became writers who slouched from sitting at desks & being daughters & lovers of beasts.

As a friend to the children commend me the Yak. You will find it exactly the thing: It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back, Or lead it about with a string. The Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet (A desolate region of snow) Has for centuries made it a nursery pet, And surely the Tartar should know! Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got, And if he is awfully rich He will buy you the creature—or else he will not. (I cannot be positive which.)