Friday, August 1, 2008

Stan Apps

Judy Was Never A Barrier

This is a wonderful poem
of words around
a bowl of fruit
with the capacity to move.

A very light flowering
of inner nudity
is where a person is.
As one who works in art, I know.

Took off her sweat suit, took off her tears,
took off the sense and meaning of her work,
and sang words as melodies
into the early morning sky,

and jumped up in it
and wiped sweat off the treadmill.
That is how art goes.
You have to be a human being to understand,

and Judy is a person, with words
coming from all sorts of places in her heart
and taking shapely
forms like ancient ruins.

Though she is uninspired, she inspires!
And that is the key.
That is why we are, really are
winning this, why every day is a holiday

even though we work hard every day.
That is the kind of person Judy has proven to be,
her demeanor is whipped cream
atop the humble bowl of fruit that we all are.

You Put Your Thursday In You Put Your Friday Out

I never know what day it is goodbye
Hello I never know what day it is

I shucked the packaging off of the sky
and what was there was airy like a fizz
hello I never know what day it is

I know a guy who owns things that are his
he owns a lot of things, an average guy
I never know what day it is goodbye

There is a special day when details die
they shrivel up like worn-out noises
hello I never know what day it is

I try to know what day it is it is
some sort of holiday or almost is
goodbye I almost know what day it is

sometimes I’m just tired of when the day is
it shortens them when they are in a line
and I’m putting a foot in that one this

one I don’t know what day my foot is in
you put your Thursday in you put your Fri-
day out and you shake them all hello

you do today tomorrow and goodbye
you do tomorrow and you go hello

Mirror Filler

In the natural environment of real stories
outsiders facing the same questions as yourself
question why people would tell their own stories

a compilation of truly personal others
Eleven Teenagers Transformed by Your Money
Imaginary Terror, just as we each face our own

‘God forgives me’ going to look so shiny
themselves facing the same real lives
all of the time telling us how they are people

numerous people in crisis are great and the opportunities are denied
brief accounts of the lives of the money that we pay
real friends enjoy first-class citizenship and successful Mind

images and personal recollections of being included
25 million people learned a great deal about Camilla
hosting a day documenting the game of Life


I used to dream of actually
cutting language—dividing one part of a sound
from another, like halving an “ow”—
with a sword!

The juicy halves
would quiver, slick
as pre-chewed bubble-gum
on the floor—Wait! Sounds can’t stick there.

I need a piece of paper
to save the little wounded bits of noise,
little birdies “oh” and “uh”

The sow that puts the ow in wow,
that pow’s wounded now

And poets are bubble-gum fighters
chewin and chewin up words
into a revolticatin wet pink mess
that blossoms when you blow into it
and then hangs on your face in disgrace

strange pink sugar-palaces of breathy truth
go floppy and reduce truth to a mood

After The Hilltop

After the hilltop
adjusts its shadow
anger hurts masks
for smiling like shame

After the sunbolt
blurbs the face
of the new accomplice
the one without arithmetic

After the moonholster
unpacks its curseshine
in the face of the battery
codenamed “All”

The opinion known by the name of “Public Opinion”
shared by a few men
couches where the champagne of celibacy glares
blurbs where anger hurts its curseshine fame

After the starbristles
agitates upholstered harmony
to the detriment of smile one hurts its “All”

-all poems taken from Refried Oracle Phone

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