Waves slap port and starboard

Tens of thousands raise their heads to the heavens
address the elbow
vast voices sing angelic praise
paper cuts, bleeding fingers, stubbed toes
the goat desperately bleats in the forlorn fog
address the elbow
the hourglass shows we’re out of time
politicians finally admit their crimes.

Waves slap port and starboard
we all live in cardboard boxes
and feast on wild dogs and foxes
address the elbow
forgiveness is our ultimate weapon
slinking, slanking Stars and Stripes
slanking, slunking sulking sows
so soon, no noontime tea and truffles
the chicken soup is way too salty
address the elbow…

– Kurt Poleet


“There is no way of finding a single absolute truth, an irrefutable argument which might help answer the questions of mankind. Philosophy, therefore, is dead, because whereof we cannot speak, thereof we must be silent.” – Arthur Seldom, The Oxford Murders



She begged me not to throw the key away
if only I’d listened there’d be a tomorrow;
now, in the dead of night, it’s clear what must be,
hiding in this dank, musty cave, this is what they call victory?

Cheap ketchup drowning powdered scrambled eggs,
cheap ketchup stains on this ragged t-shirt,
skirt the issues, hide the truth behind a sly, wry smile;
suck down those eggs,
wipe the shirt clean,
now get off your ass and walk that long, lonely mile…

– Kurt Poleet


“I hope that Dorian Gray will make this woman his wife, passionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by someone else. He would be a wonderful study.” – Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Tweed Jacket

Doctor Apothecary, carry me away,
‘cross the moon-mirrored lake,
the taxman just takes and takes and takes,
while the Holy Mother knows, but won’t dare say,
like the cold, gray bars of Oz,
because we all know you got flaws,
Doctor Apothecary, carry me away…

– Kurt Poleet


“Faith may be defined briefly as an illogical belief in the occurrence of the improbable.” – H. L. Mencken

Of course not

Too much time swimming ’round my big empty brain,
ripe, red corpuscles bleating like sheep on a train
to nowhere, unaware of the scythes and sickles
choking on that sickly hospital death-smell,
still thinking all’s well, well, think again,
those corpuscles scratching and screaming for a way out,
out of luck
out of your mind
out of touch
out of smokes
out of sleepy Midwestern towns where taxes are low
and all the fair-haired schoolchildren grow up to be
fair-haired grownups raising their own fair-haired schoolchildren,
a dream to some, a nightmare to others,
and the end of the road for all,
fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers,
the end of the road for all…

– Kurt Poleet


“Some things in this world just ain’t mean to be, not in the times we want ’em to, and the heart has to hold it in this world as a remembrance, a promise for the world that’s to come. There’s a prize at the end of all of it, but still, that’s a heavy load to bear.” – James McBride, The Good Lord Bird

I don’t know

I don’t know
who blows the wind or spins the earth
or tickles a baby till it makes the cutest cackling laugh,

I don’t know
who put wings on an eagle or flippers on a whale or horns on a bull or breasts on a woman,

I don’t know
who made the stars shine so amazingly in the night sky
or who gave such wondrous gifts to artists and authors and architects and actors and Bach and Beethoven and Brahms and the Beatles and Beyoncé
or who made the hearts of so many so conniving and callous and cold and cruel,

I don’t know
who fills the summer with salty sea-breeze air, kids splashing in the pool, young lovers in sensuous embrace
or who fills the summer with bomb blasts, AK47s, IEDs, and the shrieks and cries of fathers or mothers who’ve just seen their daughter’s or son’s face blown into a thousand bloody bits of flesh and brain and tongue and skin and teeth and skull and eyes,

I don’t know
who wrote all the cryptic secrets in a book no one can really understand
or who decides who should be a billionaire and who should starve in Darfur
or who should be a Caesar and who should be gassed to death at Auschwitz,

I don’t know
if God is the Wizard of Oz fumbling around behind a big red curtain
or Charles Manson making his Helter Skelter followers kill and kill and kill and kill in His Holy Name
or the Godfather blessing those who kiss His ass and putting a bloody horse’s head next to some poor sleeping schmuck whose only sin was not showing the Big Man all due respect,

I don’t know,
I just don’t know…

– Kurt Poleet


“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool..” – William Shakespeare, As You Like It

and that other one

Scamming greedy opulences
ramming speed! No consequences;
tearing down and tearing up,
bite the Baron’s buttercup!

Like lichen o’er the hill, there goes
his glasses, rolling down his nose!
Who really knows what dreams may come?
Shakespeare, and that other one.

This spinning marble keeps on sinning,
this sinning marvel keeps on spinning.
Blue eyes see blue skies,
and I am left to wonder why…

– Kurt Poleet


Carl Showalter: Would it… kill you to say something? “No.” That’s the first thing you’ve said in the last four hours. That’s a… that’s fountain of conversation, man. That’s a geyser. I mean, whoa daddy! Stand back, man. Shit. I’m sitting here driving. Doing all the driving, man. The whole fucking way from Brainard driving. Just trying to… chat, you know. Keep our spirits up, fight the boredom of the road, and you can’t say one fucking thing just in the way of conversation. Oh fuck it. I don’t have to talk to you either, man. See how you like it. Just total fucking silence. Two can play at that game, smart guy. We’ll just see how you like it. Total silence. – Fargo