Zumwalt Poems Online

Archive for the ‘1970s’ Category

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)

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)

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)

40th Anniversary Post

US40_220

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In the next few months, it is our intent to cajole Zumwalt in releasing any unpublished poems from various dusty scrapbooks and coffee house napkins for initial presentation here at zumpoems.com.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

 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)

Nuit Blanche

Nuit Blanche

February’s snow buried midnight
And swallowed one a.m. in subsequent flurries
Monday’s second hour
Like one of Ilium’s layers
Ruined
Awaits its inexorable interment
Atop the wrecks of its predecessors

— Zumwalt (19 February 1979,Washington, DC)

Decline and Fall

Decline and Fall

Chilled and solitary
I feel the Fall
A season flickering
A time cooling
Summer’s dissolute heat and aureate fury
Quenched
In long shadows
Darkly déjà vu
Gibbon scents the dusk
Crisp disquiet
Suddenly
October has pierced the city
Like Alaric’s Goths
Rude and barbarous
Yet
In its gusty fury
Lustral

— Zumwalt (15 October 1979)