Six of Randy's poems were published by Ugly Duckling Presse in their periodical 6x6.
6x6 #14 is available for only $3. Click here to go to the order form.
Here are a couple of the poems and some others too:
"Marigold Is an Herb and I'm in the Mood to Marry"
(I won't say you this time). It won't be like
That winter we lived with The Pill Book, me
Trying to describe my episodes to you.
What does that one do? It thins out my wallet.
Get bubble wrap, was all you could say to me
One morning from a self-induced trance. I told you
Much more important things like, Johnny Bench
Had every one of his toes broken by foul tips
On separate occasions. You don't remember specifics
But when you came to you wanted to order
Thong socks from the footwear catalogue.
You still had a sex drive afterwards.
But it was only for yourself
And your showerhead.
"To an Old Crossdresser Minding the Gap"
Regarding my jump over
Snake River Canyon, Idaho
In September 1974: I really didn't think
I had much of a 50-50 chance.
I didn't make it but I lived. Here's an overhead
Picture of you poolside. I took it before I lost
Control of the steering, before I parachuted down
Into your hair. Like Houdini sipping a Mai Tai
Graveside, missing his mother a lot,
My greatest escape was from a ten-year-old
Girl's headband, sitting functionless on
A bald man's skull.
"Late Night Prayer (Lines Composed Before Taking Valium)"
Make me full of years. No. Only (if preciseness
Is required) keep me safely on the road. Forgive me
For inching out into the intersection so carelessly;
I was only trying to tune in the radio station.
I wanted to hear about the prowess of one of Your
Beautiful and graceful creations. Lessen the times
I inadvertently turn to blitzkrieg in the dictionary.
Give me a book with different headers. Put
Cyanide on the periodic chart. Make me like He, a
Noble gas. Let me taste the oils and never let there
Be a hamburger made from the meat of my rump.
And please, don't turn me into the elm-leaf beetle.
"Breath of Fire"
I'll know my true love when she comes to me.
She'll make me want to dance. There'll be
No embarrassment. There'll be no argument
About whether or not a lifestyle can be captured
In a Tuesday and Thursday morning class. I'm
Doing yoga now in the presence of cats to
Prepare myself. I'm in the bicycle position, the plow,
When one curls up underneath my shoulder blades.
Potential energy is at work here. I could crush her
By merely relaxing.
"Beside a Tranquil Bay"
When I happened upon her
At the circular outdoor table
Under the awning, poolside,
She was trying to make the
Post-stroke electrode machine
Stimulate her toes into uncurling.
She couldn't make it
Work. She turned the power all the way up.
She still had the wires
Connected to her feet when
I took the device from her.
I plugged a cable
Into a different hole,
The right hole;
Her leg spasmed,
Kicking me hard. She was
Shocked dizzy by the voltage
And I was
Shaken by the blow.
But then she began to shout happily,
My toes are straightening,
"Rhapsody on a Theme by Sir Philip Sidney"
It was the month of my solar return and
I had gone to Oklahoma to shift my chart.
There were certain parameters I couldn't
Breach and didn't for a week. But things
Weren't turning fast enough for me; I was
Still so wrong. There was a churchman
Speaking at the hotel and I settled into
A cushion to listen to his hypothesis:
Only through pity can one obtain grace.
The light of the star caused me to squint as
I leaned over to tie my shoe, re-spraining
My finger in the process. I then climbed
Down from the mezzanine on a clematis in full
Bloom. Should I go mezuzah shopping or learn a
Survivable form of yoga? I decided instead to leave
The obedient city and my crazy red-headed
Triple Leo. I had been too poor for an
Air conditioner and I figured I'd done
My passive part for the sky. My bedtimes
Fluctuate wildly, I thought, so I won't
Even notice the jetlag; besides, I'll take
A boat. With the benison of impulse
I did. I fled to Shikotan, land of fish
Processors, eighty-percent women.
I got swarmed as soon as I stepped
Foot on the Russian Isle of Love. The
Crazed ladies ripped fringes from my
Buckskin jacket. I dream they’ve kept them,
Still as souvenirs. They were the
Remaindered overstock, those dears.
They were hungry for me and I gave
Like the apricot tree. I loved in
Truth, sort of, and they took pleasure
From my half-hidden pain. Can you
Pity me my libido? I'm bound to it, you know.
It laughs at me most mornings as I plan,
Like a Jain, the sweeping of my path.
How has this slimmest and frailest of twigs
Held me cliffside for soooooooooooooo long
Between the brink and the poof of smoke?
"My Indoor Life"
I've scoured twelve countries,
Blackbirds to rest,
Slept in motels on
Tomato sauce sheets.
If the weather turns
I'll freeze. I've spent
Night after night with my
Memo pad and golf course pencil.
Archaically, I've insisted on anent
Instead of concerning.
I've mooched and cadged for
Room to breathe and used
Shale for party decorations when
Fissile rock proved impermanent.
The involuble Zelda Zonc was never
Alliterative enough to my ears and so
I sought to make my own name
A grand repetition. I may have
Even stumbled upon a cure for
Your most persistent ailment.