Rhythm Method

Touches me

I’m inside her
When her baby cries
Just out of breech
In the other womb

My mania cycles
Sorrow despairs

I spill poems
In Athena’s lap
End a sentence with
A proposition

Hips full of mischief
Pique my interest
Loose lips sink
My battleships

Athena measures
Romantic poets
By the girth
Of their verse

Sorrow draws
Short breaths
Mania spray-paints
Sixteen chapels
In a low-cut dress

Hips full of mischief
Pique my interest
Loose lips sink
My battleships

I spill secrets
In Athena’s lap
Squeeze myself in
Big boy pants

Sorrow prints cursive
Mania face-paints
A traveling circus

Athena counts
In fractions

Sorrow grows in sighs
Mania builds
Soundproof nurseries
In the blink of an eye

Hips full of mischief
Pique my interest
Loose lips sink
My battleships

I’m beside Athena
When her baby
Throws momma
A bridal shower

My mania cycles
Sorrow despairs

I’m beneath Athena
When her baby
Throws mommy out
With the bathwater

Star 69


the luscious lull that seeps through cellphone ear
zero-one zero-one
floating off Robotic Tonsil
up in throughout buzz-hum Fiber-Optic veins
running beneath these Sacred States—
I’ve called you
I need phone service missing dial-tone
or cable TV all fuzzed out
(I desire CNN this instant I must be informed this instant)
or demand faster internet access the Porn too slow to come
I need help now
you tell me press 1 for this or 2 for that then 5 for a repeat
submissive shit I follow
touch-toning my way to Digital Gratification
hungry for your binary-sex-speak
your zero-one zero-one sweet-nothing-vibes
I want to drop my khaki shorts & spread for you
have test-tube psychopath-introvert
(I’m not afraid are you afraid)
The first auto-child of Truth & Silicone
a sin-less pile of junk with no Unconscious Mind
but automated voice-woman-drone
I’ve called you
& you’ve like a Plastic Cock Tease placed me on hold
promising a representative will be with me shortly
my call as always important
my Satisfaction as always Guaranteed

c b snoad
published in Lynx Eye (spring 2002)
edit 2-5-17

Full Of Lit

Normal Common Everyday Joe

There really is no point to this poem
I will never be a famous poet
You shouldn’t read this on an empty stomach
The whole thing’s full of lit

I worked hard to perfect this poem
The first draft made more sense
Famous poet is an oxymoron
The government pays me to think and sit

I won’t sign my name to this poem
It belongs to you and me
This poem implies poems should have a point
Poets don’t touch enough tits

c b snoad
draft 7-24-03
edit 2-4-17

Guilty As Bard

Confessions of a 21st Century Poet

I am moved by what the untrained call average ordinary bland; this gives me power

I see further into the THING of things than he who lives as just a thing

I am psycho-sexual & manic-electric

I dream when awake & sleep the whole day through

There is no unsaying of a said saying yes I’ve tried

I pray not to any god but believe in what the Mind cannot contain

I write because the Soul is Beautiful I know It is Beautiful You are Beautiful but together we tend to fuck things up from a place of love

This is not a Poem or a Story you are disappointed it is the Truth

I refrain from close contact with others; it is detrimental to my feelings

Now let me set this straight: I never make anything up in my Compositions—that which occurs in my Mind will transfer from Eye Ear Nose Throat Skin etc. into yours it will be a Real Experience & as far as we know it: the Truth is TRUTH

Some people (when stressed) consume the external i.e. bottle red meat pill &/or sexual appendage; I (though often lured by the above) just drift into thought & go

What you see here right now is not what I intended; to see my best art first find me dreaming second split my skull third wet your lips & last ENJOY

(Occasionally time floats off me)

I’ve done my fair share of reading (with the eyes) though mostly I just receive (through the Soul)

Words in certain arrangements structures & syllable links erect me this may be perverse

Refer to me please in the first person

Doctors listen to my Poems for the Message

Face it: you’re bored now go back to DOT COM TV VIDEO GAME CELL PHONE—I am ancient analog & full of bad news everybody already knows but is powerless to change because people have to eat & shit there’s no such thing as a free revolution no way on god’s green earth because god has been from the beginning under the weather

c b snoad
draft 4-21-02
edit 2-3-17

Performance Fart

poem-prose (elmhurst college may 8 two-thousand-one)

the jivey retro-girl w/ magic glasses
sunny sandpaper skin
glitter lips & pure invisible sex-joy vibes
speaks my name

it is time

skittish numb-legged
from plastic ass-warmed chair
& strolling squeaky nikes
up to dim-lit desk on poet-stage mind-display
i rise among the masses
cough-clearing thick-lined mucus-muck obstructing breath-beat-tube
(a swallow a prayer a glance cross room)
eyes the eyes billions in excess
focused on the shining holy-apex of my un-virgin essence
disillusioned devils waiting heaven from my sin-stained lips
waiting knowledge beauty bullshit-fancies
waiting poem-prose-proclamations pronto

i flutter

dizzy in the silent nakedness of thought
till high & mighty muse envelops my brain
& blows & blows & blows

i am ready

first crisp crazy bright-hued line
tumbles free-fall
down out my face into air mixed w/ stink & unseen gunk
(college perfume-germs)
striking lobes of aching audience-receivers not yet sure

next line the next flows in groove
bold beats molded into tangible truths
metric diagrams of pain & pleasure

ART—living breathing climbing over tuned-in body-pods
taking seat by punch/potato-chip stand
listening to its own naughty neon notes
enlightened among the mental-drool of awe-gripped faces
brain-full skulls amused in vocal-bursts of blow of wail

i am it
for once this nanosecond am real am full of me
yet somehow just a figment-speck of overactive poetic imagination
a 3D imposter-cartoon
pretending to be me
(it numbs me i’m confused i do not care)

out of the dolled up carcass-shield my soul flashed before these
god-sick human-drones who cry my tears
but have not eye enough to empty out emotive-waste
i just don’t care

i am a necessity

they idea-fuck me
grown-up cock-eyed boys & nipple-horny girls
deprived of the total teenage orgasm
platonic professors
who as twenty-something infants sold their souls for adjunct PhDs
& the book-bogged smarties
who scribble-translate their every heady word
recording A-plus pin-point decibel-maps of every arrant lecture-fart

the wobbly world falls off its puny stick
we land upside-down dirty
inverted in the flesh drift-away-minded

i am done

back to my lonely spot among the crowd back to the nonsense run-on un-poetic drab of the everyday push towards nothing my soul absorbing claps of hands & yells of throats i am simply me again shy-slouched poet-boy insane dreaming of a poem-prose about this massive manic night for all to know & feel as truth

c b snoad
published in Lynx Eye (spring 2002)
edit 2-2-17

Cheez Whiz And Other Human Necessities

this is a poem about writer’s block

I’ve Ideas in here
twisted / lurking in silent corners
behind sexy porno-visions / schoolbook half-truths
& fond memories of losing myself

I’ve Ideas in here
realities / prophecies
poetry & other baloney
artsy wastes-of-time & pensive in-activities

I know / I know
poems don’t oil the Machine
don’t sell Cheez Whiz & other human necessities

but I’ve Ideas in here anyway
thoughts that matter in some distant dream Platonic fairyland
I know I must know something in here
where my Ideas hide
bashful / brainy
wetting mental pants
afraid of light / of pen & paper
of eyes & minds absorbing secrets of the suffocating 21st Century SOUL

I have Ideas in here I’d like you all to feel
but they’ve protested against this poem
demanding the safety of my skull
frightened of the Mess we’ve muscled out there

c b snoad
published in The Unknown Writer (spring 2003)
edit 2-1-17

Medication (Middle) Management

In the Year of Our Lord 2006

life these days
it’s like playing baseball
with a bowling ball
our fast-food hands too fat to finger the holes

Google eyes bigger than our broadband stomachs
we consume & are consumed
natural born leaders of the free world
waterboarding the truth

& more money won’t make me happy
more sex & violence won’t make me happy
retail therapy won’t make me happy
only selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors make me happy

life these days
it’s like playing xylophone
with the Rolling Stones
at the Super Bowl halftime show

homeland security
homeland security
can’t take your seat on the plane
without spreading for security

& more customer service won’t make me happy
more booze & boobs won’t make me happy
my twelve-step program won’t make me happy
only selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors make me happy

c b snoad
draft 12-2-05
edit 1-30-17

Recovering Melancholic

Recovery Mode

I once performed mental
gymnastics upside
down on a tightrope over
the Grand Canyon

I once unzipped my flesh
and stepped out naked
in spirit astonished at
the jumble of my bones

I once rode a roller coaster
at a joyless amusement park
with my old friend vertigo
and a bottle of brine

yet here I am with my wits
about me and a new lease
on life ready to reboot
my drive in recovery mode

here I am with my wits
about me and a new lease
on life writing poetry
in recovery mode

c b snoad
draft 10-24-04
edit 1-28-17

I Wrote This Poem With My EpiPen

Anaphylactic Shock

I’d been working all morning
on a fifth grade science
project at my friend Paul’s
house when his mother served
us soup for lunch, forgetting
to exclude the cup of milk
she’d added countless
times before.

Seconds after eating
a healthy spoonful
I knew it in my gut.
My face swelled like
a hothouse tomato,
lips turned marble blue.
My throat rebelled
against my lungs,
refusing to let air pass
without a fight.

I rushed sneezing out
the front door straight
for home, afraid I
wouldn’t make it.
Paul would have to glue
Styrofoam Neptune
and Styrofoam Pluto
to the poster board solar
system we created
in an unfinished basement
on the day of the week
God famously rested.

You know how bee stings
sometimes kill innocent
children at amusement
parks or backyard barbecues
on the Fourth of July?
That could be me but
with pizza, frozen yogurt,
french silk pie or Fun Size
Milky Ways any day of the week.

That must suck, says
everyone I tell.
They can’t live without
mozzarella sticks, Frappuccino,
buttered popcorn
or Cool Ranch Doritos.

Some of us are sensitive
souls with glitches
in the spirals of our DNA.
To survive we bring our own
buns to hamburger joints,
spread soy margarine on plain
baked potatoes, make friends
at kosher bakeries and pray
to God the dopey Applebee’s
waitress reminds the cook
to clean the grill
and hold the cheese.

c b snoad
draft 3-9-13
edit 1-26-17

According To Plan

According to Plan

got your plans in place
got your life in order

everything’s fine
no really you’re fine

think real hard
debate debate

got your plans in place
got your life in order

everything’s fine
no really I’m fine

think real hard
debate debate

got my plans in place
got my life in order

there’s a logical reason
a cause and effect

just think real hard
debate debate

I feel just fine
when everything goes

according to plan
even though

it all goes wrong
the harder you try

to make things right
in the end

c b snoad
draft 11-15-07
edit 1-25-17