Constantine points

Constantine points
his dirty finger up
some marble sign
extruded right out
of belly hole chords
they mightily sing
angels umbilical
across the abyss-
inian desert fury
wasteland holy
hubba hubba
the daily news rolls
buttered with bile
they line the bar bitter
while salt-rimed eyes saw
better days when
bloody nights throbbing
out on the town
he read his books
took his time &
set his traps
tramp tramping
one finger pointing to
a ceiling flowered white
three fingers down to
palm minding its own
time wasted fishing
being peered at while
fingering an E minor
neck slide of glass
picking an Acuff lick
mocking forever
the platter of encrusted
shrimp nugget
pull off the tail
a fragile carapace
pull it and cringe
ah ha ah ha
oh night of mine
return home whenever
it’s over the top
switch off the fluorescents
they slide overhead
the stars, Sirius singing
maybe infinity is on the !
babbling mother’s reefer tunes
lordy the green tricks
colored blue now
take a card any one
but a face will do
anything you want




  1. I’ve been reading your work for a few weeks now, it’s tasty. I’m also certain I don’t fully understand all that’s there, but its impact is certainly there, no dead bones here.


  2. Pleased to learn that you are reading my work (but isn’t it play, really?) and finding it tasty. Better than bland, whatever the taste is. Yr comment got me to thinking about shaggy dog stories and Rauschenberg combines. Reading yr pomes—the current 1 is a doozy—is like that. I want my doodles to be alive like that two, not dead bones. As my old friend Santos Dumont often reminds me, “absurdity is not what you think it is.” Every time he says it, though, he emphasises a different word, totally changing the Meaning. See?


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