Each year, Columbia University's Philolexian Society hosts a bad poetry contest in loving memory of Alfred Joyce Kilmer, author of "Trees."  I've entered this contest a number of times, and even won once (see 'Little Buddy' for the full edition of the winning poem).  And yet, Kilmer is always so ephemeral -- a bad poem here one moment, vanish'd the next.  Thus I've put some of my cherished bad poems online, in roughly chronological order, so that they can forever stand as a testimony to my spare time.

Here are the poems you'll find:

Warriors of Love  (1989)
The Ten that Wasn't Perfect (1992)
Little Buddy (1995)
Hopping through the Cantos, A Prosody Poem (1997)
Payne Stewart, or, Fight the Fascist Power! (1999)
Sitting Shiva for a Cat (2000)
 

Enjoy.

We are the fighters for love, baby, just you and I
We could reach for our dreams, we could touch the sky
Baby I know if you're by my side, even the night is warm
Baby you know that I'm your man, now, you know I'm the one

So let's light a fire tonight, let's get our chance at bad
Come on, make my life tonight.  Meet me in the stacks.
We'll roll like thunder by the books by authors
Who wrote love poems like these to their sweet lovers.

We'll make the music of love and passion
We'll search our souls and make our love happen.
Come on honey, let's see the whole night through
I want to fight for love, I want to fight for you.

So cruise down the sea of love
Meet in in Butler now cause I can't get enough
I'm a warrior of love
You're a warrior of love
We're warriors of love
I'll even use a condom so there won't be little
Warriors of love, oh baby,
Warriors of love.

One is for the one time that we kissed on the lips,
Two is for the two timer that you were.
Three is for the majic number that we shared
Four is for the number of us on our special double date with Max and his girlfriend
Five us for the fingers on my hand when it felt your chest
Six is for the numnber of times I asked you out before you said yes
Seven is like heaven, how it was when we were together
Eight is enough, of your fooling round behind my back.
Nine is for the time I was supposed to pick you up on our second date, but
Ten is for the time I left, since you dissed me.

And that makes ten.
One two three four
five six, then more
Seven, eight, Nine, Ten,
But I would do it all over again.
 

This one from 1997 was definitely my most complicated performance piece, and I wasn't even there to direct it; I sent it over to Mr. Ken from Israel.  This was when I realized that Rob Mitchell's Three Rules for Kilmer Success -- performance, performance, and performance -- could only go so far.
 
 

(note: this prosody poem requires four Readers, and considerable interactivity between the Readers and the Audience.  Hopefully the Readers can get a look at it five or ten minutes before performance time.  Following the Argument, each of the four Event-Happenings is to take place simultaneously.)
 

Argument (to be read by the First Reader)

I speak, and yet, au contrer, I speak not;  the disembodied deconstructed vox artii is not mine.  That is to say, it is mine, it is a word.
A word, that is to say (but not to say, since I do not speak, since I write, and not speak) --  a logos.
I speak this unactualized logos, predeconstructed, within myself; begonst is Whitman's yawp, in this decentered age of postmodern multiplicity.
Thus: I speak.
And what do I say?
I, twice thousand miles hence, cannot speak.  My voice lies with Shakespeare's homosexual half-brother, with Foucault's last fling, with all those silenced by the Western patriarchal oppression.
And so, I speak not in the logocentric miasma of hierarchical verse:
I want to dance.

One : Cage : The Pitter-Patter of Little Feet

Each of the enclosed pieces of paper [slips appear at the end of this text] is to be handed out randomly to a member of the crowd. The First Reader is to take a large, phallic object (cane, baton, etc.) and point to random bearers of pieces of paper, who are to say or sing the words written thereon while standing on one foot.  If the bearer of the piece of paper refuses to stand on one foot, she may say "I refuse to stand on one foot and/or participate in this farcical display."  (Large-type copy enclosed.)  If the bearer chooses not to read, the Reader may rap the bearer with the large, phallic object.  This continues until the other parts have concluded; the Reader may call on persons more than once as desired.
 

Two : Derrida : The Archival Koans of Jacques

The Second Reader is to pounce around the room, pouncing a total of seven times, with about 20 seconds space in between pounces.  Each pounce is to be punctuated by the phrase "I'm Jacques Derrida!"
 

 Three  :   Vinciguerra   :   Did you ever wonder...

The Third Reader is to stand at the podilectern/front of the room and begin each of the following seven paragraphs.  Whenever the Second Reader next pounces, the Fourth Reader skips to the next paragraph:

1.
 Did you ever wonder about after-shave?  Here we have it, a ritual handed down to us from our earliest boyhood, and yet no one has a clue how it works.  I've been paid $3,000 by "The New Yorker" to test out all the finest after-shaves, and you know what?  None of them is better than good old fashioned spittle.  Lusty Breath, by Pierre Cardin, comes in an attractively shaped urn reminiscent of an urn outside the Journalism School of Columbia University.  It had a tangy zip to it, and yet, it smelled of death.
2.
 King Zog of Albania was a merry prankster in the old school tradition.  There was nothing that King Zog wouldn't do for a laugh - and that was just what he would do for a laugh!  You should've seen what he would do to recapture his country.  He raised his son Leka to be an honourable man, like Brutus and Cassius before him, and when King Zog finally turned up the daisies in the late 1960s - around the time heady revolutionaries were gathering in the streets near Columbia University - Leka had blossomed into a full-fledge schmuck.
3.
 (gesticulating wildly) But! But! But! Theres--!  Alfred Joyce!  But! But!  It seems to me!  It seems to me!  How come I've never won Kilmer!  But!  But!  You see!  You see!  (repeat)
4.
 Ulrich Von Haffenbach has recently donated $3.5 million to Columbia College.  This has nothing to do with why he is being profiled in CCT, of course, I simply bring it up as preface to the narrative of Von Haffenbach's fascinating, though tormented, life.  Von Haffenbach - "Stumpy" to his friends - was born a small, black child in the deep South before discovering himself to be a strapping Aryan lad in the wandervogel movement of pre-war Germany.  After wandering clear out of the way of the approaching storms of war, Stumpy found his way to Columbia, where he became employed as a typist.
5.
 And now, my rendition of: Twas the Night Before Christmas, as envisioned by obscure Eritrean poet Pom DeZuzu.  "Twas the Night Before Christmas/ And all across the Levant/ Nothing much was really happening/ Because it was the Levant.    We won our independence/ From Ethiopia/ And now we have little to say/ Like Cassiopeia.    Our food it is quite tasty/ And different from Ethiopian/ I hate when Americans confuse it/ Although it is somewhat utopian."
 6.
 When I look back upon my days at Straw Miller's Hoe-Down Pie-Pitching Fish Barn, I can only remember one thing: the hazy look of my first cousin Mathilde (she is French-Canadian, born to my raucous aunt Vivi, who married uncle Firenze to the astonishment of my Italian relatives.  No one speaks of Vivi directly.  Rather, they refer to her as "That woman who owns Fifi, the poodle.") as Mathilde first tasted a sow's ear.  The ear itself was not distinguished: just an ordinary appendage to a pig's head, fried, as is the custom, in boiling rabbit fat.  No, it wasn't the ear, so much as the earlobe, which dangled from the sow's ear in such a provocatively flaccid manner  that Mathilde was forced to make a rather off-color remark about Uncle Firenze and his "Italian Stallion," or so she called it.
7.
 Alfred Joyce Kilmer loved life, and he would love the spirit in which we are gathered here this evening.  He was someone who, while he may not have been a great poet, was nonetheless always enthusiastic, ever ready with a full snifter of brandy to offer to visiting Philolexians, and not, I repeat not, related to Alfred E. Newman.

Four : Ed "Too Tall" Jones : Bounce

The Fourth Reader is to read, very very slowly, the following poem, such that it should not be finished too long before the preceding sections:

Bounce Bounce Bounce.
The Ball Goes Up The Court.
Bounce Bounce Bounce.
I wish I wasn't so short.

Bounce Bounce Bounce
But wait, I'm Ed "Too-Tall Jones"
Bounce Bounce Bounce
That's pretty groovy.

__________

Following the conclusion of the quadripartite portion, the following is read by the Second Reader:

Epithelamion
 

Thank you, dear friends,
for letting my spirit rest in this place.
Now,
it is time,
for a Pop Tart.

(finis.)

The following phrases were written on slips of paper handed out to the audience:
 

 Zoomorphism       Little Buddy         Utopia?        Colander
Agamemnon       Bizarre Gardening Accident    "Give up verse, my boy, there's nothing in it"
Speak, Memory      Tight-speedo-on-George-Stephanopoulos       Number Nine
Watch the yams       Seize the Day     The Watusi, The Twist     Save your breath!
Then we'll see who's tough.     Lech Tizdayyen.     I'll show you the life of the mind.   Tighty-whiteys
Force yourself to eat.      Consume away my deadly stain.   Crucify me, Baby!      Nyet, nyet... not yet.
Palm-Olive.  Palm-Olive.     Soupy Sales, where are you now?
And then you bounce....     Each punishment is its own reward
Am I a fish?  Do I look like a fish?   Sports! 24 hours a day!
Androgynous shimmy, slither cross the dance floor, ooh mamma ooh mamma ooh
we, the undersigned parties, shall be exposed to "Confidential Information," which, for the purpose of this undertaking, shall be defined as any information relating to the business, products, resources, or services
I can't tell you what he said, because it was something round and splendid.
 hereby protest that no poem including references to genitalia placed in last year's Kilmer competition.
You know what I like, it's when people write entire novels based on nothing other than their own experience.  You know, like it would fucking matter, for christ's sake.
Whatever it was, there must have been something special about that first pair of tongs.
C'mon Baby/Let's have hope/C'mon baby/Soap on a Rope
If you're in the mood, I'm in the mood.           Then he said, "Kill the Badger, Kill it."
I sent my soul Federal Express!  But you wouldn't take hand delivery.  You asshole!
There is nothing in this world that is certain, boy.  Nothing but a beer.
When I grow up, I want to be an old woman.       See?  I told you!  See?  I'm cooler!   See?  I told you!  See?
Don't act like Hamlet, it's not that big a deal.
O that this too-too sullied flesh would melt like the American cheese atop a sizzling hamburger, frying in oil.
The merit of our ancestors has saved us!
Epistemological relativism is one of the great cliches of the 20th century.
Awarded the 1983 Thomas Fiske award for the best essay treating the subject of taxation of derivatives.
When you awaken the sparks dwelling within the lowest reaches of the world, you hasten the coming of redemption.
This all reminds me of a cool Quentin Tarantino film.
And Johnny Cash said to me, "Son, you've got your dick in your hands."
We're a capital couple are Bloom and I; he brightens the Earth, I polish the sky.
The splatter of blood on the pyramids, like so much ceremonial face painting among aboriginal cultures, is in fact more a totemic sign-bearer than a truly political act.
You put your right foot in and you shake it all about.
In understanding the themes of displacement and exile, it is necessary to ask, "What is displacement?  What is exile?"
Difference, that is to say, differance.  But with a kick, and it comes with a little olive.
Life is divided into two parts: the horrible and the miserable.
Led Zeppelin is the greatest band since Beethoven.
Cracker barrel cheese is made of small babies' toenails.
Marv Alpert is every man, sister.
All we want is to love one another and be loved in return.
What is happening to the nation of Togo?

I think this next one was one of my best, but the judges disagreed.  (1999)
 
 

Why do we care about Payne Stewart’s tragic death
When many poor people are dying every day instead?
All this fascist media attention on golf
Distracts us from the real problems of our time, according to Chom-
sky.

We moan, moan, moan on the phone, phone, phone
But while we do this the patriarchy is beginning to make the brothers groan.
I think that if we took just one percent of the attention
That we devote to celebrities, and paid attention to the poor instead, it would be a good lesson.

Oh but on the other hand Payne Stewart makes me sad
Why must our loved ones be taken, why can they not be glad?
In my opinion, Payne Stewart dressed better than Tiger Woods;
I just have to say that, although I know I shouldn’t.

I know that my heartstrings are being pulled by the media machine
Which slices and dices reality until it’s barely real, with a knife so keen,
That’s why I try to steel myself against the corporate media monster
By watching only Ally McBeal and, as I mentioned, reading Noam Chomsky.

You would all do well to follow my example, so let me state it plain and clear:
I only read newspapers in which the word “Comrade” appears.
The Socialist Worker gives me the news I need;
Even though it doesn’t talk about Payne Stewart in his tweed.

And even though it doesn’t have any tips on how to meet boys or girls,
I think it should be sufficient, plus maybe Entertainment Weekly once a week I unfurl.
Fuck George W. Bush!  Fuck Al Gore!
The people don’t have a real alternative to vote for!

If I had my way,
We’d all get to be president for a day.
Then we’d have real democracy,
The rule of the people, by the people, for the people, see?

But no, instead we get candidates picked by the white man.
I mean, I know I’m a white man, but I’ve raised my consciousness-plan.
I’m not white like those people in the suits
I’m white like Malcolm, and Jesus, and Buddha.

                Interlude 1:  FREESTYLE
Well I got my babe
But it’s not okay
Cause the man
Understands
What it takes to get him paid

My back breaks
And my mind aches
For the fascist and the trappist
Monk my god sakes

I rejoice in
James Joyce’s
Use of stream of consciousness
To make his choices

 (diff2)
While running around
The moles in the ground
Say what’s that sound
Like in a dog pound
Kept on a leash without a sound
Rising on a mound
Without bounds
Zounds!

The brothers aching perfume
Sighing on the kerchief
Waiting for the man to die
And the subway to arrive
Republicans should fry
Like Mumia in the sky
And Rage is so cool, why?
Because they tell the people why.

Then my mother calls me
Asks how I am doing
I tell her I’m peachy
Cause I’m reading Nietzsche
And truth is so tricky
Don’t you don’t you see see
I am the new Christ honey
Shakespeare makes my money
Rhymes I chime are funny
But not vivisection..

(resume)
I don’t support the way the system rapes the inner cities
I think the suburbs really suck too, I don’t think they’re pretty.
I think if the world were perfect we would all live in the East Village.
Because that’s where all down people are chillin.

I hate the way the system makes me feel so depressed
People are beautiful, like an orgasm, but instead
Of feeling like the orgasm, our society makes them feel like
A crumpled-up used tissue in the teenager’s wastebasket of life.

Anyway I’m almost finished with my poem you see,
I like the way it’s coming so far, and poetry’s free–
It’s not like the Snapple The Man makes me pay $1.60 for;
It’s not like something you buy at the store.

Poetry, my music, my tribe, my voice–
This can’t be denied, like my hairstyle it’s always my free choice.
That’s why I sing about people like Payne Stewart
And how the fascist system co-opts them and turns them into stew

Nobody really gives a shit, that’s what I think.
The way I see it, they’ll kill you each time you blink.
You turn around, the jugglers and the clowns
Stab you with bad karma and make you feel down.

They don’t really care about how the people feel,
All those congressmen and senators and politicians, they’re just like electric eels;
They’re slimy, and evasive, and they sometimes give off electric charges,
By which I mean the shocks to the working class as it tries to forage.

                Interlude 2:  Freestyle!
Say a word for the children
Who can’t let their voice in
Even though they’re screamin
Their parents aren’t believin
So they take a gun machine in
And they kill the peepin’
 Toms who footballs are schemin’
In the twilight’s gleamin’
And then we get Janet Reno in
And she says this is seeming
 Like the worst thing she has seen in
All her years but demons
Eat out the hearts of little teens &
Subjugate our weemin
So I dig the trenchcoat reaming.
If you get my meaning

Am I mad and how
Like Purina dog chow
The way the people use the tao
 Is like pigs using their sow.
I don’t bow
To idols now
I’m proud
To do whatever I’m allowed
By the people on the bow
Milking the golden cow
Making people say wow
Making a really big row
On the pow!
On the how?
On the ooooh, farmer’s plow, chairman mao, socialized education-how?

(sung) Symbol of the new... consciousness
Burning flag of the old... militarism
Singing hi... little sister... would you like some...
Alienation candy?

(resume)
Payne Stewart – what a crock, the way the system used him up.
You know we never heard what he had to say about that fascist Clinton.
If Payne Stewart had spoken his mind, the PGA would’ve banned him.
If Tiger Woods would speak out for the underprivileged, Nike would’ve fanned him.

I’m nearing the bottom of my second page
But I haven’t yet begun to vent my rage
Still I know your attention spans are short
Because you’ve been trained on television and movies and sports.

So just remember this as I send you on your way:
You’ve got to fight the fascists, like Payne Stewart did, every day.
The only way for class struggle to succeed is to subvert the dominant paradigm
As T.S. Eliot said, Hurry, hurry, man, while there’s still time.
 

twinkle toes, bright urethra,
i really would like to meet you.
turkeys gobble and inside them nematodes wiggle
when I see you I dance a jiggle.
but you spice your psychedelic con carne!
i turn epistemological relativism’s allen key!!
    Sitting shiva for a cat!
    That’s where my thoughts are at!
    Sitting shiva -- for a cat!

listing heavily Jonah’s sailors row their oar
anarchist utopia spoilt in East Timor
i whispered to the ghost of Dean Moriarty
sweet nothings, pen-smeared dumplings, new beat graffiti
 chanted and pen-inked, from the Port Authority
what was I told?  Do not be vulgar!
but what is ugly about a vulva?
mammogram mammogram I want to be your mammogram
measuring each micron of your cup-size, ma’am
i am the resuscitation of John Donne
channeling the vibes of William Burroughs,
 and of possessing your mugwumps, I’m not done!
    Sitting shiva for a cat!
    The cat sat!
    It was fat, the dead, dead cat!

     because the old one was nineteen years old, scurvy-tingling,
     moaning blue, sadly jazz, and rickety with arthritis
     Sam Beckett once told James Joyce, “There’s only one thing worse
     than making art, and that’s not making art.”  Right -- ‘tis.

[Performance art: The poet bites his fingernails]

when aroused in an inappropriate place -- a gym shower,
my grandmother’s residence --
i have learned a trick: to think of dead cats.
Mew!  Mew!  I undo my tumescence.
Sitting shiva for a cat!

spongy worms, captain Nemo
i’d even like you in chemo.
     o, i dream of viscera, mucus membranes, knives under my
     fingernails, centipedes in my toes,
     i walk the streets of the dead city, driving the dodge till it
     bleeds, spinning in perpendicular infinity, while toes
     are growing out of your face, and cats are eating the corpse of
     William Burroughs, licking the shingles of Friedrich
     Nietzsche,
and the cats are fighting the patriarchy
 in my mother’s uterus,
–and rubbly dubbly gobbly gobbly
Yes, you are my calliope.
 
 
 
 

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