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Michael Philips Poems
I set off a stink bomb At the art opening of bad art. It was funny how everyone started Looking around as if they
There are two types of people: Those who play golf, And those who recognize it for the idiotic malpractice that it is,
I want someone to invent a coffee table book that rapidly deteriorates and transforms itself into something else,
She made a scene at the wedding Wearing a black leather miniskirt Upstaging the livid bride My kids thought she was exciting and cool
A Shitty Valentines Day
Just shut up already about herbal remedies, I told her. This was on Valentines Day, hours before Sally fed my dog some herbal medication and he brewed butt coffee
Bagging Kid Charlemagne
You cannot see the upper reaches of Everest from the base camp, where you acclimatize with attitude and finger exercises.
The One True Religion
I. Researchers say Mormons have continued to posthumously baptize Jewish Holocaust victims into their faith despite a promise to discontinue the practice
No More Communists To Kick Around Anymor...
Those old communists – the ones in the triumphant revolutionary posters with broad shoulders and eyes on the horizon where the sun is rising on a better world,
Colleagues Who Die
Colleagues who die kept in my rolodex alive in circulation flipping round in ritual
Your gentle yawn while reading the sports section as they fill your prescription. A light scratch of your nose
The white one purred and was soft. We gave it a name. Got hit by a car. We buried it in back.
One Day at the Flea Market
That gray morning I purchased a cheap electric bass, the man with a friend on the Force offering color enlargements of a strangled young woman
As he crosses into the end zone and the crowd ejaculates in rapture,
Getting it Wrong
Sitting on the patio At Jeff and Melanie’s Just to be near Melanie In hopes I would be well positioned
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I set off a stink bomb
At the art opening of bad art.
It was funny how everyone started
Looking around as if they
Would somehow be able to see the smell.
People began fanning their faces
With their programs and an Asian
Woman actually held her nose.
When they discovered I was the culprit
They roughly escorted me out
Of the gallery and the owner told me what I
Did was adolescent and stupid.
I said the smell was only bad
In his subjective mind – who’s to say what’s
A good smell and what’s a bad smell? But
He had already gone
Back inside to help ...