Poem With A Failed Tornado

This poem, a collaboration with Maureen Seaton, was first published in the online journal coconutpoetry.org. We used several techniques, such as exquisite corpse. Plus we invented our own writing games.

Neil de la Flor & Maureen Seaton

Poem With A Failed Tornado

Dear American Idol. Dear Cracked Corndog. Dear Stool Softener. Dear Orange You Glad To See Me: plop!

P, for plot of land, porky chops, all chopped up and nowhere to gamble, thimble on my plumb thumb, therefore—dance.

You are such a snob, little coupe. I bring you plums and what do I get? (Once I was a brownbudsman, once I had no broken feet.)

Once I had nothing brown. Now, everything is brown, even black is brown, the teller too, the tiny crumbs between your toes.

Don’t feed me! Feed me lechuga (lettuce). Feed me arroz (rice) con (with) pollo (pollo).
Feed me something uncorndogish.

Freedom hangs like heaven over everyone.

Poem With A Pagoda

This poem, a collaboration with Maureen Seaton, was first published in the online journal coconutpoetry.org. We used several techniques, such as exquisite corpse. Plus we invented our own writing games.

Neil de la Flor & Maureen Seaton

Poem without a Pagoda

Because the solemnity of the occasion broke down into little soldiers, I thought we’d start again with more juice.

But the panini was sliced in half before the oranges were squeezed.

And the gross point shot backwards. (Nothing in the world like a blue-eyed girl make you act so funny, make you spend your money.)

Nothing like ice hockey to make you eat Duncan.

I completely forgot how to bring strength to my numbers or to settle my timbers. Osteo Paratus!

Cerebus omnibus!

Keep your shoulders parallel to the ground. Da do run run. You are the keeper of the mouse—how can you not know what a cat would know,

synthetic fibers connected to his whiskers?

Poem With Fried Food

This poem, a collaboration with Maureen Seaton, was first published in the online journal coconutpoetry.org. We used several techniques, such as exquisite corpse. Plus we invented our own writing games.

Neil de la Flor & Maureen Seaton

Poem With Fried Food

Canary Island, Island of Greece, handmaiden fairmaiden, scruffy godmother, where art thou (you) thou (you), feathered goose.

Byproduct of all that ever was good about St. Butterman and the fetish poet.

South Carolina has banned coupons or tampons. Texas has banned water purification. Ohio has banned toast. Someone’s missing a boot.

And are we sorry? No. And have we learned anything? No! Who woke us up this morning?

The cold front? The fat sun? Flea bite? Song: “I Just Can’t Get Enough?” “Don’t Stop til You Get Enough?” “Give Me Your Blood and That Will Be Enough?”

Blood. Sticky munchhausen.

Van Heusen: the last thing she ironed before the fist. (Feast?)

Poem Without A Bed

This poem, a collaboration with Maureen Seaton, was first published in the online journal coconutpoetry.org. We used several techniques, such as exquisite corpse. Plus we invented our own writing games.

Neil de la Flor & Maureen Seaton

Poem Without a Bed

Othella, painless and shirtless, she (or he) failed pageantly into a bowl of pah.

Stah! No goodentiden to you, brudder bare.

Live and shared with trustywuurthy solidarity. P.S. Ya, she was stoned.

And therein flies the rubbermaidenstagen, Gorbechev.

Ich bien trabajo and merciless she boucouped before the coup d’etat went ballistic.

Now she’s back with her hunred dolla Bill float in her hip packet.

Hunred dolla, how dare you incite scrubby-loose change to her cure. Send her curses.
And a pillow.

Like she wud ever lie down.

Poem With A Canary

This poem, a collaboration with Maureen Seaton, was first published in the online journal coconutpoetry.org. We used several techniques, such as exquisite corpse. Plus we invented our own writing games.

Neil de la Flor & Maureen Seaton

Poem with a Canary

Myths begin with a monk destroying slugs in the garden. Underfoot now, they are like footprints of the Holy Spirit. Parrot, parakeet, lesbians sans s.

The H.S. is a replica of
a spiney remnant of
a cross-eyed optic of

Simply, whatever is flying around and is so small it is never seen ever but you feel something on the back of your head and bat it—

whap!

as if the laptop were a hummer
as if the icons were idols

Where do slugs begin?
And why do they call slugs slugs?
Why, oh why, do they call monks monks?