Your Last Breath as an Act of Remembrance –Flarf

A world of floor’s, dog fur, and dry pine straw on your hand,

And it smelled Band-Aid tight and finger white

Like the stuff coming in of the breeze was your best friend

Like walking up with an unidentified spider bite

Paralyzed in the corner looking at your phone

Struggling fighting gale and pine branch.

And this shit was near a busy public telephone.


Not quite enough to keep you from fumbling the key in the door?

A bloody eye on a shield,

And your hat laid in my field,

Is this not the BS button you are looking for?


I find my way of speaking to you strange and stray

Misty hills locked in dew and fence and place

But family is irregular. Kick them out of the way.

Ass sewed to face sewed to ass sewed to face

Highlighted in history with your ass on the wire.

Ignore it most of the time like misty word and wood,

Microfiche and sadness of a Swedish dumpster fire,

And your breath like a guitar still playing if it could.


FLARF is a wild style of poetry that started as a joke. People noticed that no matter how bad your poems were would tell you that you had won their poetry prize. Then, they would try to scam you out of your money. So devious poets started sending the crappiest poetry they could write to Even that would win the poetry prize. These poets began sending each other their crappy poems, and eventually it became a legitimate poetry style. If you want to read more about the FLARF or any of the other poetry terms, check out the glossary of poetic terms from the Poetry Foundation at:

Google painting is a type of collaging that primarily uses internet search results and Google’s search prediction capabilities to generate quasi-random phrases. The technique helps jumpstart creativity with strange juxtapositions, broken syntax, and internet speak.

November Poem 1: Marina (Part 1)

With the morning frost lighting the porthole

In the first rays of sun, I sat and watched

The reflection on my cup of coffee.

In the steam, I tried to imagine my

Daughter holding a sandwich and sitting

Across from me sharing a meal at the

Old card table where I had eaten so

Many times alone.  I pulled my scarred hand

Out of my pocket and warmed my fingers

On the cup before I took the first sip

To shake off the lingering grip of dreams.

The day was much calmer than last night when

The wind bumped the boat against the dock and

Rocked me to sleep in fitful remembrance.


How I Write: a Walk Through


October Poem 43: The Trick of Nothingness

The retaining wall. To save your parents

The erosion that served to strip you of

Your most valuable resource. Your land. The

Hill. Your livelihood. You should have something

To behold. Trailer tailgate the top of

The Earth. Offloading boards at the awkward

Angle from front of the grave. The little

Vine from the world’s fair. It grew so fast. Land

Scraped smooth as much as smothered. Furniture

Of your house. Your salvation. Vanishing

Nothingness. How it burned bright across your

Throat. But you know squalor. And the trick of

Nothingness. Soft toilet paper. And a

Good toothpaste. It will be missed when it’s gone.

October Poem 17: Childhood Words

One word prompted a nebulous mix of

What would turn out to be little more than

Waking to his childhood. He’d realized

That the people responding pushed him up

Lifting two years after the small rock shook

Him now that it shot out from the homemade

Salsa. An entire bag full under

His front right wheel. Like the flat side too fast

To bail now that he was a fruit. A red

Pepper that you buy from the store. Still in

Great shape for his age. Now that there was one,

Out there was the gap that would catch the wheels

And a few clouds to darken the after-

Noon. Send him flying into a blind rage.

August Poem 11: Cocktails

A memory in a glass.

A poem retold.

The poet forgotten

But the words remain

As proverb.


Barkeeps recite it from memory.

A little too much lemon

Or the wrong base spirit.

The rhyme, too sweet

Or the fruit juice has lost its meter.


But the people,

They order their rhymes

Straight up or over ice.

Sip them and enjoy

With the old friends they just met.

July Poem 29

Josh Cherry said in the past,

The Public School Department of Education

Should be fine with communities.

On the other hand, the lime juice side could care less.

Those living in the household

Of the same game who are age 18 and older,

You’ve been pre-selected to receive licensed drivers

Through their vote for a candidate.

But memory was so faulty

Had faded so much, a clay mask with a mouth

Surrounded by vegetation,

And the low branches made to watch the event.

July Poem 10

59 percent think President Obama did not win his elections.

65 percent think President Obama

Is a memory—

An area, one spot complete with the beautiful treasure chest.

7 percent think Ted Cruz’s father—

A colorful backdrop, a white dreamed wicker settee—

Wanted to be president.