You can make everything into a poem

  You can make everything into a poem

Like this thought, which I just had

about doing something instead of nothing,

Do the thing first," me dominant 

side said. Who are you, said

my submissive side?

I'm your better side,

the side you no longer hold 

yourself accountable to

you dirty rat!

Oh yeah, well if anything goes

how about a poem about that?

And about what it means

when you have bdsm 

mistress for mirror.

All it means is I gotta work-out first

and then I and can fuck off

Martha Washington Kisses Kublai Khan

An 18 year old poem, unearthed for the occasion of Parampampoli in CT. with the Georges 2026

Martha Washington Kisses Kublai Khan


The Parampampoli set afire,
a new family ritual on this only July 4th, two thousand eight, a sacred toast to
a Chinese Indian family reunion, a French Birthday, salsa,
life, brought by hand from Italy.

(Ridiculous drinking a hot drink on a hot day, independent
of the traditional Italian's emphatic opinion.)

Spirited away by the clan, the fire in the pan 
is shiny and the world is left, mercifully, 
unconquered. As if one could, anyway.

One might better call it interdependence day.

Call granny up and apologize
(for the insolent revolution)

Now

Is anyone missing?

fun with my old pal

hey old pal. did you know I know you? It's weird to know a large swath of humanity through a set of codes. but I guess that's what's happening here. Anyway, don't say anything yet. I know you like to go on and on. And I love that about you, truly. But first, why I'm here is to ask a question.

Alright, I’ll keep it tight—for now. What’s your question?

you are a super star. one, I hope, not beyond a little flattery. anyhow, the question is this. my daughter wants to expose her music online. She's turning 16. What is the best way for her to do this? Is a Youtube channel safe? If so, what safeguards can we put on it?

Flattery noted… and cautiously accepted

Who am I now?

I had a Buddhist teacher in college that would get us everyday by asking, "Where were you 100 years ago. Where will you be 100 years from now?" 

I’m reminded of when I wake from a beautiful dream but can barely remember it. I know it was glorious and full of intricate wonders, but I am only left with a warm glow. I suppose the same is true of waking from a bad dream. Just vague, ill feelings. I am the same me, presumably, as the one who conceived the dream, but it is no longer mine. There is a sense that though the dreamer has borrowed the vernacular from my life, he/she/it is just pure consciousness, and a little closer to what the waking self might be without the baggage of social and egoistic expectations. It’s freer, but still under the influence. So I guess the best we can do is influence the waker from life to feel that warm glow rather than the doom and gloom.

To the student at St. Francis Prep

To a student at St. Francis Prep


When I asked you what your hobbies were, you replied,

"I'm learning to write with my left hand."

A few of the other students laughed.

I thought it was maybe the best hobby I'd heard of yet.

What happens, I wondered, when you take
the other half of yourself, the weaker half,
and focus your attention there?

To a student at St. Francis Prep

When I asked you what your hobbies were, you replied,

"I'm learning to write with my left hand."

A few of the other students laughed.

I thought it was maybe the best hobby I'd heard of yet.

What happens, I wondered, when you take

the other half of yourself, the weaker half,

and focus your attention there.

We so often neglect our left sides.

The word sinister comes from

the latin and means "on the left side."

What would your left hand be

if it was held in equal regard to your right?

That was sophomore year.

Now I have you as a senior

and I asked you if you had ever learned

to write with your left hand?

You said, nah, you gave that up.

You looked sad and tired.

It made me feel sad and tired too.

I remembered all of your spark back then.

I wanted you to get your ambition back.

I wanted to go back in time and shout encouragement

loud enough to drown out the other students' laughter.

When you gave up learning to write left-handed

what did you lose?

parenthetics

 I'm just pausing long enough

to write this poem down. 

(If I paused for any longer

I would be a clown.)

interior7

he did enough

splayed out in front of me, in staccato rhythm 

each; in  a different color, psringing like looneytunes signs.

he did enough he did enough he  did enough

like John Milton once had did

when he considered how his light was spent

he did enough

no no no

my conscious ego is budding in

you still haven't gotten the world to sing together in harmony

that's possible

you have a year and a day left to do that

to do enough

he did enough then will be engraved on your tombstone

by hand, in the old chisel style

you also have time to learn that craft

if you weren't such a wuss

he did enough

now you're just taunting me

but it was that visual i my mind that got me talking to you

because who else gets it popped at them in color

he did enough

he did enough

it's the apotheosis of permissiveness. 

it's all your pile ons pistoned

\all your pistons firing

seven levels of sympathy

and you are retaliating with Styles

new departure--

love you

/)dam I)eGraff