jump count
The cycle sunk
and with disaster
capsized the bounty:
a quick game played into
extra terms and over time,
a reckless plot with
some mention of revenge;
a speculative view
afforded by affronting the populace.
the spring is wound…
the sword is drawn with crayons,
and you and I are pawns
in a game of pick-em-up 52.
-Zumwalt 1973
Agamemnon Never Had It So Good
The creeping crabgrass sprouts…
And in a malaise of malcontent challenges the
wafting, drafting hydrocarbons.
A lawn of moldering green cadavers.
Mercury, mercury, everywhere, and not a drop
to drink.
The salmon croaks. the sardine croaks, the crimson
crawdad croaks, even the warted frog croaks.
But do crooks croak? Nay!
O, justice, thou art not blind —
a bit deaf maybe — but not blind!
All that is left are saltines and brushed suede.
Thus we reach Armageddon.
—Zumwalt (late 1970s?)
PSYCHOLOGO
my table is busted
a sore sight to see
and the metal-grill chair
is as comfortable
as a bed of needles.
a pretty girl in a blue jacket
and in maroon cords
reads the school paper;
she is in a trance.
a small audience is watching
a couple of college students
playing five-minute chess.
a young women on the other side of the room
gazes at me over the rim of a
white coffee cup.
i burnt myself this morning
frying up french toast
and the pain mingles with everything else
like short-wave radio static.
1.3 GPA
yells a figure with sideburns
and a number of people
in his group laugh
until their heads fall off
and someone has to come
and put them back on.
sitting cross-legged on the carpet
and from a distance
it all looks like
a game of charades,
long, long hair
and i find myself stare.
i am thinking of leaving
PROTECT YOUR LOUNGE ENVIRONMENT
TAKE THE TIME TO BUS YOUR OWN TRASH
a famous musician enters,
but no one recognizes him.
a cloud hangs over,
but then again
maybe it's just the plumbing.
my eyesight is shot
everything in the distance
all looks the same
and now it is only my table
that is different from the others.
-- zumwalt (1974)
[reformatted for WordPress display]
Decay
Discrimination lies with concentration
Machinations, machinations
equilibrium staggers—
Smell the breath of industry—intoxicated fumes
Has the ignition point been reached?
Atomize before the vestigial globules are digested
and Odovacar pulverizes the wall
–Zumwalt (late 1970s or early 1980s)
Quadroset
i. dawn
the hillstrings lace the pale garden
shadows are lifted
teasing the ground
beak your piece says the mother bird
for worms are precious food
a tranquil birth
and yet no clue
of the chaos yet to come.
ii. rush hour
screeching skidding
piercing ears
no art could match this pace
crying howling
curses threats
bodies pushed around
smoking burning
greedily fuming
factories wait in ambush
oh no can't stop must be off
my time is much too dear
look around this ghastly ground
motion is the coming price
the virus that will spread throughout
gain begets a further need for gain
and soon nothing will gain to stand.
iii. salad bar
radishes
cucumbers tomatoes
garbanzos bacon
vinegar and oil onions roquefort
croutons almonds greenbeans
more and more and more and more
oh yes I have to try the lettuce
iv. the evening
the culminations of aggravations
the see-saw city glare
mixing masses of migraine messes
must this mottle meet the mind
old sayings still limp around
and appetizers drop on the ground
the news is needed if it's not misreaded
everything remains and continues
like an out of control hoover vacuum cleaner
sucking everything up
count the days forget old ways it's all a daze
and deeply dives the disordered ditch digger.
-- zumwalt (1973)
as good as buried
so ball-drained
cause he has to have a chick
on the kick
a boomer today and a blow-out tomorrow
he thinks he’s a cool aviator
but it’s not so cool where he always ends up:
another piece of debris among floaters
and when he’s back on the ground
his gears are jammed
for the pleasure has turned to pain
and will remain
until another connection.
— Zumwalt (1974)
deleterious habitat
hot southern heat
baking your alaska
the smog fills your
lungs like sand
in a dersadrop humidifier
breathing is a function
and we are approaching an asymptote
three toed sloths trek through the treptremanian soil
burning air and burning phylum
cough…
cough…
cough…
It is time to let me out.
— Zumwalt (1974)
might as well forget her
she's
dropped
like a hot rock
pizza pipers peddling pieces of purposeful product
not at all like
lipstick, perfume, deodorants
and other such shallow items
cleatamenthate degarglycide throntine
it does me no good to say i miss her
i don't
and if I ever find myself missing her
then something's missing in me
craters, black light, dew drops, frozen stages,
and a topping of dehydrated marshmallow sauce.
the world is full --
it's full of fools
and common sense has vaporized
like an ice cube on the sun.
— Zumwalt (1974)
Not sure if it’s something to celebrate, though clearly an excuse to blog, 40 full years have passed since the first published Zumwalt poem, “Trilogy of the Oblique Carbide” appeared in the inaugural issue of GHLM, a low budget literary digest with a circulation of only slightly more than 500 copies.
In this deeply epistemological tribute to the bebop musicality of the beat generation poets, Zumwalt loads the existential bases with the three most essential questions: where does life come from, where does it go, and what is the meaning of life; hinting that the essence of life is eat, get eaten and reproduce.
In the next few months, it is our intent to cajole Zumwalt in releasing any unpublished poems from various dusty scrapbooks and coffee house napkins for initial presentation here at zumpoems.com. Until then here is a reprint of the first ever published Zumwalt poem.
TRILOGY OF THE OBLIQUE CARBIDE
I. Judge Crater Is No More
Help!
There is a fandango up my nose;
This is justice?
O ironic gods -- can they
Really repossess my pancreas?
And Black and Decker tread on the cosmic puddles
URRRP!
II. Moira
My ravioli molded to day...
The wispy green fuzz eating
Away the corrupted entrails of Alpha Beta
Ground sirloin.
Pathos. Tragedy. Tricanosis.
Such is fate.
III. Cry the beloved wingnut
Bladderwort lied.
Bigot! And the hungry children cry
In their farina. Would Rothschild give
Them Twinkies? Ha! Let them eat Spackling paste.
Spush! Time, the rain-bird, spews
Its indifference towards the continuum of OHM.
— Zumwalt (1973)
Solo
Blinking away caffeine minutes
And hours
With the deli owls
Sparse and sporadic
Savoring the solitude
Of the urban predawn
I watch winter
Convoluted and crystal
Rush the window
The radio unloads
Heavy metal
High volume, howling
Then
Upturned chairs
the busboy plays counterpoint
on a Kirby
Purposeful sips
Premeditated
Prolong the leisure
Hunching over the cup
I feel my midnight independence hobbled
by night’s loneliness
yet, nonetheless,
Satisfying
— Zumwalt (19 Feb 1979, Washington, DC)
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