Biggs, OR

The man in Biggs, he works at a gas station,
a lone proclaimer of every vagabond tortoise.
His bigs are many,
his loves are dear.
His love is a deer.

The blood, he sings, a pop song into the pig's night,
a stop sign for every last blinking toad-friend
to hear. To sleep,
to sleep, perchance
to dream. Ham get.

The blood, he's a river, he's the man in Biggs,
the home-pickled watchdog of nature's buddies,
between the small,
between the big,
between the Biggs.

Face Exploration

I saw upon his mouth a hot dearth,
a cold birth, the troll's earth,
quivering like the lips of
a child whose lips are quivering.

I saw inside his eyes a great twig,
a late pig, a date or fig,
punching things until the retinas fall
into pits of aching children.

I saw up his nostrils a cool hat,
a fool's math, a tooled bath,
climbing ever upward into the exploits
of the grumpier guys.

James Porter at 25 Years, Part 3

The green ones go.
The red ones run.
The blue ones blaze.
Fruit.

A Shrub

A shrub speaks to me, recites poetry to me; beautiful words:
"Men got where pristine Philistinism,
whom then-was." I also think the shrub is cute and moral,
like the Book of Great Things that
every baby is born reading.

The shrub rebuts himself, says words of logical stress:
"I could apprehend you, but I'm finished
with all of that;" I don't understand him, for he is
too complex for me to understand.
His words climb desks.

Notes on a Scene

Underneath the stage, I listen to the actors,
but their voices are muffins.
Muffin batter spills out of their mouths
as they try to speak.

Before me, I saw mountains and fourteen suns.
They were chilly like ice,
glazed link the icing over the cupcakes on stage.
It's still in front of me.

An electric bee, crucified, lies down on my left,
and next to it a circle.
Their wooden friends are worried about them;
The box watches them.

A cat and a crowd are busy like bees around me,
and the turtle, red, sits behind.
A bear and a bearcat interact also,
here underneath the stage.

To Explode a Dream

Hello sir, what's that you have?
Why, it is a
dream-exploder. I use it
to explode dreams.
How does one go about getting
a dream-exploder?
You must make it yourself.
Out of what?
Oh, you know, all manners of things:
marshmallows, beans, bones,
nails. Even swords.
Okay. I shall
make one.

Sonnet 155

It does was then, like universal beef
That men untimely like to dumpling bread.
And lest that got blood tassels, iffy reef,
We didn't were not over-jumbled head.
Unless by under trousers-bearing done,
Fair maids does was that wasn't buying greens,
My dolphins, wolves, or picked up ruffle one.
Get here, or child and please explain the beans,
E'er men, pant get beside poor puddle, wash
My evil was that multitude of boots.
Get here, for during metaphysic squash,
By grumpy ever-preening brown and roots.
You lumpy stockings hasn't if they been,
Besides, let's didn't laser tag again.

Sitting on a Huge Tuft

Sitting on a huge tuft, I look at things:

Big River is blue paint on the left and shimmery black rock on the right.
I look at it.
A cloud is a huge crown, another cloud is a pelican.
I look at them.
A tiny pig emerges from Big River.
I look at it.
The ground puffs into green flames beneath me.
I look at it.
Dinosaurs hover over the water.
I look at them.
Smaller dinosaurs have a corporate meeting on the other side of Big River.
I look at them.
The sharpest desk in the world appears on the rocks.
I look at it.
Houses ride a water slide down into Big River.
I look at them.
Huge buttocks flutter in the wind.
I look at them.
My kneecaps are removed by the tiny pig.
I look at it.

The tiny pig returns to Big River.
I look at them, together.