Is a Cucumber encumbered with evil
As it steals from the innocent Weevil?
Or does the Carrot parrot soul
Because it cannot bear it whole
And so becomes addendum to the Deevil...
Is the Cucumber Post-Modern or Medieval?

Does Asparagus aspire to higher places
Disparaging the lure of common spaces?
Will a Cabbage deign to savage Pears
While keeping up its Attic airs
Perversely abrogating finer graces...
Does Asparagus really know the fate it faces?

"I think not!" says Kid Tomato
To the umbrage of Potato
Who's a elder in the Church of Vegemundi.
"Who really cares?" intones the Parsnip
Who is actually quite a barstard.
Ergot kohlarabi fridgapundi...

Will Lettuce ever let itself be good 
Or contemplate a crime deep in the woods?
Should a Pumpkin pump a boy-in-pew
Like priestlings out in Bumpton do
Or hunker down and turn into a prude…
Is Lettuce ever in a praying mood?
 “What utter rot!” shouts Maude the Radish
Who the Turnip thinks is faddish
As she squeezes her slim figure through the strainer.
“Who gives a fig!” orates the Lima
Who believes that he is much sublimer
In his burping lavender plastic container. 
Philosophy is difficult to master
For vegetables a terrible disaster
They try to think but all for nought
They squeeze out pulp instead of thought
It won’t help if you just tell them to go faster…
They’ll never be an angel or a pastor.  
Jesus was so fucking good
They hung him on a piece of wood
"Fucking hell!" he said to Daddy,
"All in all, I'd rather caddy."
That Charismatic Crawling Hand which tugged the Brazen Boats
Of Aromatic Lobsters in their Porcelainic Coats
Across that stitch of Ocean lacking Decent Bed and Fare
Like a Train lost in the busy Rain drowning Jeffrey’s Hair
Was not and shall never be
Is not as far as my Eye can see.
The Aramaic Lobsters with Itchy Faces sour and sweet
That the Corpulental Crawling Hand excavates for Meat
On a Sub-Saharan Shuttle Train without Decent Jam and Beer
Upon the Wilted Sea of Weak Milk-Tea that moistens Jeffrey’s Hair
Were not and shall never be
Are not as far as my Eyes can see.
The Occipital Ocean rare upon whose Steps we strode
To catch the Tenebraic Train which barricades the Road
Leading to the Crawling Hand dying in the Air
Like the Anorexic Lobsters that often cough up Jeffrey’s Hair
Was not and shall never be
Is not as far as my Eye can see.
The Hippothalmic sleeping Car dines on Postman’s Glue
And nests within the Swiss Cheese Sea which obfuscates our View
Of the AutoMatic Lobsters in a Golf Cart in Bel-Air
With the Crawling Hand (a Girl or Man) smoothing Jeffrey’s Hair
Was not and shall never be
Is not as far as my Eye can see.
This AlterNautic Lobster Tail dressed and fairly Breaded
By the Corrugated Crawling Hand once beloved and now regretted
In a Transylvanian Tank Car stuffed with Scrod who care to dare
To drink the Sea that took a Fee for dampening Jeffrey’s Hair
Was not and shall never be
Is not as far as my Eye can see.
That Copromantic Crawling Hand which tugged the Brassiere Boats
Of Anaerobic Lobsters in their Puisillanic Coats
Across that stitch of Ocean lacking Decent Bed and Fare
Like a Train lost in the Buzzard’s Rain drowning Jeffrey’s Hair
Was not and shall never be
Is not as far as my Eye can see.
Said the Mentos to the Meatball
"Let's have a go at fishing"
"But the sediment's so settled"
Said the Marble to the Menthols
The aforesaid Dementos
Saddled up their muscled centaurs
"To the shallows" said the Mess Hall
But he was sadly maddened
By the sight of Sally Mudhole
In a surrey merely shady
Near a middling shed of metal
In Somerset Missouri
     “Would you all say that in general it's probably best to avoid adverbs? And why or why not?  Does it wreck a poem?  Can it make your writing too prosey?  Does it mean that a poem is weakly constructed?


Narrowly and
The moon
Awfully and
Spitefully and
The sun
Huskily and
The stars so
Oh the Day is longer than my Gown  
When the Solstice comes to Town
When the Sun beats down on Us
Much more than the Stars
Oh the Hours get warm and then they melt
Darkness just gets very very svelte
When the Sun beats down on Us
Much more than the Stars
Nighttime is receding
Where it goes to I can't say 
Maybe it's just feeding
On the Remnants of the Day
Oh the Sunlight's pouring down like Rain
It's a Habit but it's very strange
When the Sun beats down on Us
Much more than the Stars
(Last week I saw Mars!)
Much more than the Stars
(They look like small cigars!)
Much much more than the Stars
Elephants are far from stupid
And quite near being smart
They're living in the suburbs now
And shopping at K-Mart
Many are artistic
And quite a few play chess
There's one that lives near Hammersmith
That passed the Mensa test
But they're not always somber
They know how to have fun 
They're grey, they're huge, they're wrinkled
But - damn it - they are not dumb.

Lydia is very smart
But she hides an ugly part
In her rough pine box called Cerebellum

Alice smells like cigarettes
But she fixed my red Corvette
And drove me in the pelting rain to Pelham

Stupid people cannot scare'em
They're my darling Mensa harem

Victoria's a little rude
As she sculpts another nude
Soon to grace the mausoleum MOMA

Betty looks a bit like sturgeon
But she's a credited day surgeon
And to think she does it best while in a coma

Stupid people cannot scare'em
They're my pretty Mensa harem

Love them all
I clean their stalls
Oh - weekily
I check for fleas and ants and floating bits of hay
I read their tests
So monumental!
Look at those breasts
They're so essential
To the general run of what I call "my play"

Stupid people cannot scare'em
They're my charming
So disarming
My sentimental
With tails prehensile
My intellectual
So erectual
I am a toy snowflake
     (not the most popular)
I do little but fall
Through a toy sky
     (not the most popular}
when a key is wound
you can build a toy evening
     (not the most popular)
against which I can fall
to melt in the toy sun
     (the most popular)

The neurotic embryonic
Made its bee-line for the gate
Seems it got a little panic
And couldn't wait to wait.

It came across a Boy Scout knife
And fell into the sea
Where it got sewn into gloves for Mom
And a Christmas hat for me!

I'm happy with my Christmas hat
As it talks to me in bed
And whispers of Pat Robertson
And how it misses Fred.

Fred's the name it gives you see
To the dog it never gotted
Because it felt against a blade
And all its futures clotted.
Hamlet's a schmoo.
Ham and eggs are a meal.
Ophelia's all wet.
     See, Hammy (that's what they start calling him in Act XVI) has a Twinkie
he wants to give to Ophelia 2 (who is the clone of Ophelia 1), but she's hot
for Bartleby the scrivener (who's a guy who scrives), and Bartleby's got his
plume up for Daisy May Pantagruel, a liver donor from Canada.  So, you see
the scene is set for riotous fun. But first, Hammy has to get Mommy out of
jail, where she was sentenced for burning down Count Mulberry's plywood
brothel cum bowling alley. A titch of a crumbake,  that.
     In Act XXXII, Hammy 2 (the clone of Hammy 1) falls into the River Styx
and meets a cord of wood with lips called Theodolite. Theodolite tells
Hammy 2 that Hammy 1 is gay, and must not marry Ophelia (1 or 2), so
Hammy 2 returns to the greenhouse and grows himself an extra arm to hold
a broadsword and to read the instructions to his new video game simultaneously.
    Meanwhile, Ophelia 1 has drowned in a strawberry Big Gulp and left a note
telling Romeo and Juliet all about the two Hammys and the remaining Ophelia.
Romeo kills Juliet and moves in with the cord of wood with lips. Juliet gets
boinked by a falling star and gives birth to a flaming giraffe.
a commune with the Potato of Terror
Last night I walked beside the Tiber
Which flows by ancient Rome
And dreamt a dream of aging tubers
That don't quite make a rhyme.
They circled in the Maximus
Or orated in the Forum
About the price of Taxi bus
(Three taters make a quorom)
They worshipped tarts and trifles
And wore earth-colored gowns
Then took their long spud rifles
And shot the Crispins down
I can't pretend to know their dreams
Of catacombs and loggia
But listen carefully to their screams
Filtered through their togas.
Their screams echoed into the night
Like "OOHHH" and "Dearie me!"
The Jolly Green Giant kept out of sight
With the Man from Del Monte
The pain, oh, the humanity
As Crispins they did fall
The tubers screamed profanity
Too lurid to recall.
They sawed their teddy bears in half
And stuck their heads on spikes
And hideously did they laugh
On their blade-wheeled motor bikes,
With death-heads sprayed upon their tanks
Chrome skulls and axe tattoos
And spiked maces with chains and shanks
And breath reeking of booze.
The Crispins turned the booze to water
"What a useless act," said Trent
(He was the father of the daughter
Whose favorite holiday was Lent)
“I'd rather vodka come from spigots
A fiery tater brew
Or maybe squeeze a fart from civets
Or fog from cockatoos."
Afar (Alas!) Athwart Ajar
Beware Be kind Becoming
See Caesar seizing a cigar
Delovely Degumming
"E's in the Coliseum, mate
If rumor's true (I doubt it)
Gee! Stand for God. Standard rate
And spackle now, or grout it."
The nesting dolls woke in the dark
And profound Vestal Vegans
Found a pal, a tine, a spark
And Crispins look like Fagins.
"Take me to your Leda please"
The swan was heard to snicker
But Crispins took a magic sneeze
And made Bosco out of Liquor.
And lo! The second time that day
Sweet liquor was profaned
The vegans' vests were blown away
And nothing pure remained
Quentin Crispin looked appalled
And minced out of the door
His sacred codpiece had been mauled
On a bad hair day, what's more
When twelve patatas bravas
Arrayed in chilli red
In sombreros and balaclavas
Beat him with pipes of lead
Until he cunningly dispersed
Them with a quiet emission -
The quiet ones are always worst,
Akin to nuclear fission.
And now about Rottini Square
A silence-like bazooka
Beating Muslins with its hair
And dancing a mad tampuka
Or diddling with the daily bread
(Pieta! Pity! Pita!)
By means of Quentin's head
(Metor Maidum Rita)
A pall has settled and paid its rent
And drinks its warm regatta
From plastic Holy Grails enscribed
"From Dada Drear und Matta"
The crucifix is just a fixture
A penny lamp from Woolworth's
That illuminates this molding picture
Of the Rooster and the Bull Nurse.
The cockatoos are mad to fog
The civil order of the civets
Who turned the water into hock
And Quentin's stuck with spigots.
Soon a big almighty hand
Appears, and does begin
Writing "mene mene" and words grand
Like "tekel upharsin"
Quentin, less safe than houses
Stands quaking in his boots
Wishes he'd worn brown trousers
And dyed his greying roots
While six divested concubines
Dance in circles lewd
As Balshazzar drinks buxom wines
And eats suggestive food.
He slowly peels bananas
With fingers bold and flighty
Outraging seers and llamas
And vexing the Almighty
Rolls his tongue round melons
Nibbles grape and date
And for potato felons
He reserves a ghastly fate.
Yet Tatertown is hushed and brown
And Nero not so nearby
But Gone to get his lyre down
And play a tune to sear by
And all about the cries rang out
"Forgive us, mea culpa!"
Or "Tally-ho!" or "Twist and Shout!"
Or "Quentin's got a crowbar!"
The Tiberiffic tubers dream
Of Kaisers rolls and mayo
While Caesar salads float downstream
To satiate Scott Baio.
The twilight of the earthly apple
Seems a sad affair
Since Jazzbo Crispin rode the dapple
Into the dopplered air
His voice retreating, shrinking still
Until it comes unpeeled
And drops like dandruff on the swill
Of Quentin's bedroom field
"It isn't that I turn my cheek
Or turn to face the music
Or turn my sword against the leek
Or leak into my tunic
I am not half as hard as ice
Or twice as frail as fritters
But more like ivory mixed with rice
To serve to placid critters."
So says he, and so say I
And turn into a saloon
Which turns into a mince pig pie
Enscripted with hog runes
Which read as thus (in dusky tone)
"The Crispins ate the Lions"
And Nero and Jazzbo both get stoned
On Quentin's scented crayons.
"Look, man" Chortles Nero
"My toes are flying away,
And your gut is pulsating
In a wibbly wobbly way"
Jazzbo rubs the colours
Firmly on his teeth
He can see his brothers
And their skeletons beneath
The mince pig pie is growing cold
The cabbage putrefying
While Nero stands, naked and bold
To watch his toes free-flying
And as Rome begins to burn
He grabs his violin
And does his famous party turn
Wearing only a glassy grin.
The flames that night were vaguely German
Disciplined und achtung!
Dancing to some Woody Herman
Arranged by Joey Bach’s son.
All night the fire consumed the slums
And daylight found it flickering
Amongst the piles of tater crumbs
Who (somehow) still were bickering.
They argued now of topping choices
Sour cream! Sweet butter! Violence!
The sunlight fell upon their voices
And all the rest is silence.
Romeo loved Juliet
Juliet loved Harry
Who ran the butchers
And really liked Mary
Who fell hard for Elvis
(Johnson not Presley)
Who was partial to chocolate
And often got testy
When women would tickle
His drunken libido
Which only wanted Reeses
And a bag boy named Quido
Who yearned in his yearner
For a frozen chihuahua
Covered in salsa
(Quido was gaga)
Which dreamt of cabanas
Far off in Cancun
Full of tanned waiters
Mincing and hand-tuned
Who waited on weighty
Women from Waco
Who daydreamed of truckers
Wishing that they'd go
Take off their trousers
And make love to midgets
(Perverse but persistent
Those sun-wizened Gidgets)
Who want to be hugged
By carnival barkers
And bedded in feathers
By mad monks in parkas
Who (after this list
Is all said and done)
Would much prefer arsenic
Washed down by Blue Nun.
If the Sphinx had a sphincter
Of stone sunbaked and dry
The sessions "at toilet"
Would make Horus cry.
A grunting extrusion
Of crocodile turds
But hard as the heart
And rough beyond words.
But maybe (just maybe!)
And please hold your smile
The Sphinx has a sphincter
The Cheops its pile.
The Sphinx is half kitty
And the sand all about
Absorbs most of the odor
Of its sphinctorial grout
But if there be miasmas
That linger suppose
That probably accounts
For a great lack of nose
On the face of that mystery
Somewhere east of Ohio
That sat down to relief
And shat out a Cairo.