Zumwalt Poems Online

Archive for the ‘1970s’ Category

Decked Out

Decked out

Your regalia creaks and groans
A panoply of rust and whining joints
Moira’s chess game begins
And already you’ve been rooked

Charge full-tilt at windmills
Or
Settle for an electric fan
Just keep moving
Or God’s heating element
Will fry your soul
And scorch rationality
Maintain that effervescent personality
And disco on the Teflon of life

As the sun browns out
And your Zippo’s flint disintegrates
Grope along the nitred steps
And nestle in your excelsior storage crate

Relax and let the Sony vomit
Search for a bebop sax
(The opiate of the cool)
Kicked back, you realize
You might just slit your
Jugular while shaving tomorrow
Fate won’t have you to kick around anymore.

— Zumwalt (Oct. 1978)

Category:

1970s, Free Verse, Modern Poetry, Poetry, Zumwalt

Tagged with:

jet

jet

rose colored optimist in your bright and breezy spirits
playing ardent admirations in the joyful penny chorus
holding on endearingly to the steering wheel of our honda
with the wings of love,
with the science of comfort:
skyrocket dreamer who has made this life mean more.

the sincerity sinner is rushed to his dinner and we overlook
a life long since abandoned,
left to the birds of
pretext,
pretentiousness,
and petty prevarication plunder.

we are safe,
thanks to you,
and your large
inheritance from Aunt Ruthie.

— zumwalt (circa 1975-1983?)

Category:

1970s, 1980s, Free Verse, Poetry, Zumwalt

Tagged with:

jump count

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

Category:

1970s, Free Verse, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Zumwalt

Tagged with:

Agamemnon Never Had It So Good

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?)

Category:

1970s, Free Verse, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Zumwalt

Tagged with:

PSYCHOLOGO

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]

Category:

1970s, Free Verse, humor, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Zumwalt

Tagged with:

Decay

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)

Category:

1970s, Free Verse, humor, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Satire, writing, Zumwalt

Tagged with:

Quadroset

 

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)

Category:

1970s, Modern Poetry, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Zumwalt

Tagged with:

as good as buried

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)

Category:

1970s, A

Tagged with:

deleterious habitat

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)

Category:

1970s, D, Uncategorized

Tagged with:

might as well forget her

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)

Category:

1970s, M

Tagged with: