Singing Sweetly to the Sun

The Leaning House Press

2009-10-02T16:48:00.002-05:00

There is a side project, a publishing house in the making, and we've just launched an advertising campaign:

http://leaninghousepress.blogspot.com/2009/10/another.html

and

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kwTXNSiuOd0

Check us out.

A Poem I've Attempted Many Times Before About My Weeks in the Mental Hospital

2009-09-26T13:28:00.004-05:00

Not nearly as glamorous as Plath's The Bell Jar,

nor quite are horrifying as Dante's Inferno.

Mostly I watched reality television, played ping-pong

and lied to my psychiatrist

while adorned in pajamas that I've since lost

and slippers that weren't mine to begin with.

The food was better than expected;

they probably released me too early.

Ode to Satire, Pt. Finale

2009-09-15T13:53:00.002-05:00

Sulky Satire sought a fray,

unpleasant Satire slept.

It could have been a wonderful day

but we couldn't even get him to talk.

His friends and I, like woolen socks,

kept his most vulnerable items inside --

his secrets, his fears --

but then he left for Hawaii

and after, hooked on oyster, was never the same.

What he has now is the end

to a great blunder the world may never see,

verse rewritten, some misremembered.

Once at my writing desk, I was proud,

convinced I could write something new.

I stood up ontop and sang,
"Damn all their fathers who knew nothing!"

Now all I have is to steal.

Ode to Satire, Pt. V

2009-09-14T12:22:00.001-05:00

A man and a woman

are fun.

A man and a goat

are Satire.

Ode to Satire, Pt. IV

2009-09-11T12:45:00.002-05:00

Satire has raped my potato salad under the cover of night.

He has insulted my father's way of life and my mother's

taste, and furthermore has not taken my very serious

poetry very seriously. Aren't you ashamed of your silly-

sinister rebuttals to all my muoy importante arguments --

the healthcare debate, world hunger, the castigation

of small puppies for urinating on the fine rug in the den?

In Prague he has set up two nude men, connected them

to a cell phone, and trained them to piss on his own dear

mother land. What chance should the rest of us have

in evading his steaming, streaming liquid waste?

Why shouldn't we be spit in the face?

Ode to Satire, Pt. III

2009-09-10T15:43:00.001-05:00

When we buried our first kitten, Blueberry,

we put up a cardboard gravestone and wore black

doilies on our heads like Jews in mourning,

and got so caught up in our imitations of sorrow

that we couldn't help but giggle ourselves sick,

and then we remembered that it wasn't fake mourning,

that Blueberry had really died. It wasn't pretend at all.

And that's when we really cried.

Ode to Satire, Pt. II

2009-09-09T15:10:00.002-05:00

Friend to Euripides, but not the heroic

Achilles, Satire is a glorious sham --

never who he claims to be.

Just last week he came to the door

of my austere apartment, begging for change

and carrying a ratty guitar.

"Money for sweet music," his sign read,

but when I gave him a dollar

he merely beat the back like a drum.

When I tried to take my dollar back

he slapped me with his strings, which bit,

and I realized why he couldn't play:

the stings were actually snakes.

Ode to Satire, Pt. I

2009-09-08T10:23:00.000-05:00

He stands in the dark apex of my vertiginous soul

drinking my dark places like burnt coffee, yodeling

and flicking my testicles like two round clove

cigarettes. He's saying something Freudian,

something that works on many levels and is best taken

with several lines of cocaine. I am his biggest fan

and he is a table that only looks like a table

but in reality is a giant waffle iron that if you sit upon

will burn your ass in perfectly symmetrical golden squares.

I have been a wayward child

2009-09-05T23:57:00.000-05:00

But not for too much longer...