sarah cynthia sylvia stout would not take the garbage out! she'd scour the pots and scrape the pans, candy the yams and spice the hams, and though her daddy would scream and shout, she simply would not take the garbage out. and so it piled up to the ceilings: coffee grounds, potato peelings, brown bananas, rotten peas, chunks of sour cottage cheese. it filled the can, it covered the floor, it cracked the window and blocked the door with bacon rinds and chicken bones, drippy ends of ice cream cones, prune pits, peach pits, orange peel, gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal, pizza crusts and withered greens, soggy beans and tangerines, crusts of black burned buttered toast, gristly bits of beefy roasts... the garbage rolled on down the hall, it raised the roof, it broke the wall... greasy napkins, cookie crumbs, globs of gooey bubble gum, cellophane from green baloney, rubbery blubbery macaroni, peanut butter, caked and dry, curdled milk and crusts of pie, moldy melons, dried up mustard, eggshells mixed with lemon custard, cold french fries and rancid meat, yellow clumps of cream of wheat. at last the garbage reached so high that finally it touched the sky. and all the neighbors moved away, and none of her friends would come to play. and finally srah cynthia stout said, "ok, i'll take the garbage out!" but then, of course, it was too late... the garbage reached across the state, from new york to the golden gate. and there, in the garbage she did hate, poor sarah met an awful fate, that i cannot right now relate because the hour is much too late. but children, remember sarah stout and always take the garbage out!

my man shel. that brings back memories.

there's a recording of shel reading it on dr. demento's (20th or 25th, i can't remember) anniversary recording. aiaiaiaiaiai!!!

i never like listening to poets read their own stuff. i prefer the voices in my head. especially carl. i didn't even recognize the title of this poem when i first saw it posted here. but when i started reading it, my mind started flooding with images. my grandfather gave me that book when i was 8 or 9. i loved it. "me-stew" was another favorite. and "the dirtiest man in the world." and "listen to the mustn'ts(sp?)"

i checked it out from the library b/c i thought it was about time. my favorite methods of publishing my poems are slams and sculpture.