Maurice Oliver spent almost a decade working as a freelance photographer in Europe. Then, in 1995, 
he made a lifelong dream reality by traveling around the world for eight months, recording his 
experiences in a journal instead of photographs. And so began his desire to be a poet. 
His poetry has appeared in The Potomac Journal, Circle Magazine, Bullfight Review, Tryst3 Journal, 
The MAG, Eye-Shot, The Surface, One Forty Two Magazine, Word Riot, Retort Magazine(Australia), 
Taj Mahal Review(India), Stride Magazine(UK),& online at ink-mag.com, friggmagazine.com, 
dash30dash.com & tmpoetry.com. He lives in Portland, Oregon where he is a tutor.
 

  A Damp Place To Stanza
 
  In snout to stiff
  around a scent or heat
  of what I am in unabridged form
  wants waits to cast a shadow
  of purpose or
  impatiently under the lamplight
  eine frau
  or she might exhibit
  her incidentals then easily
  be mistaken or taken or derived
  from the latin word for muse
  been broken in half
  or hold on I'm coming
  for better or worst with piles of money
  belted blasted busted chickadee
  for a roll in the blue tank
  or some other coordinated raid
  dressed in snapping jaws
  and that god-awful hair
  could be the good chemistry
  or a fuzzy night with a big bucket
  bet you can spatter she said
  or perfectly clear only in parts
  especially regatta in the past tense.
 
 
  Soon Swallows The Bottle
 
  We welcome other views on the subject.
 
  Or let's pretend the letter F is a gazelle's neck.
  An artificial paradise filled with fancy garage
  openers. A few lawn chairs mostly aluminum. No
  shade, no shine. Carved coconuts. Palms. stretched
  out along a broad boulevard. What an eyelash is.
  "I'd like to feel the finger of a perfect stranger",
  she says, during her lunch break at the glove factory.
  "And I've heard flute players have the most nimble
  fingers", her co-worker replies, with a mouth full of
  bologna. Burnt toast. A teapot whistling in Czech...
 
  fiercely independent ashtrays...
  a minuscule rock garden.
 
  Watching a half-wit in baggy jeans whistle birdlike.
 
  An iron egret rusting on the length of a weather vane.
 
  Is it snobbish to prefer Mister Ed to the Marlboro
  Man?
 
  A swan dive into crazy glue.
  A Bavarian orchestra in lederhosen.
 
  Or maybe it's the people in straw hats that
  carry on the most "interesting" conversations.
 
 
  Which Says, "Ruck Fugby"
 
  -In a bale of afternoon hamstring.
 
  -To sneak a peek or a pinch of salt.
 
  -Or crunching your ad-lib & extra fruity.
 
  -As bamboo is to a panda.
 
  -To be so ceiling in several monosyllables.
 
  -Or time spent penciling-in the motorcade.
 
  -Then shag me said the carpet.
 
  -Like the inability to hide one's swagger.
 
  -Or crawling through an avery mudslide.
 
  -In a machine that pulverizes every ancestor.
 
  -Applying glue to a chipped cupful of universe.
 
  -Or harbor seals in a dried up riverbed.
 
  -Her Marilyn Monroe-like birthmark bare seat.
 
  -Or try catching a falling star for lunch.
 
 
  "A Ruler Measures Itself" Sonnet
 
  Sitting on the edge of the bathtub watching
  the water steam. With tweezers to pluck out
  any apprehension and douse it in the toilet.
  To the sound of a dull razor scraping across
  a double-chin. In a white shirt standing on
  the jetty. A phone number constantly engaged.
  Sticks it's warm brassy air in my face. That
  happiness requires postmodern scaffolding.
  Two dragonflies skirting the water. With a
  parrot someone had brought to keep them
  company. Not in the dream repair business.
  Or life in a uniform from the same kitchen
  window. A bunch of raisins dancing across
  the TV screen. Making fewer trips to certain
  old family stories. Grapefruit rinds left to
  soak on the morning paper. When even torture
  becomes boring. Fascinated that the same organ
  that pumps the blood also pumps in words.
 
 
  Once, A Narrative...
 
  then other times I can feel like
  any regular homicide
  while brushing shoulders
  with a swollen paper cup
  but definitely not
  having sex with my shadow
  or spoke too soon
  confessing that I made a mistake
  if no one in particular
  I wanted waited to penetrate
  through thought or deed
  or if anything can be relative
  even birds know how to vamp
  but I seem to always end up
  wearing argyle socks or
  humming a Greek song about rowing
  or stuck with the notion that all
  life is imaginative
  especially if we consider the fact
  that sometimes you get
  the best lighting from
  a burning hay ride.