Friday, August 17, 2018

Becoming Slightly Unhinged In The Bank Waiting For My Priority Number To Come Up During Another Record-Breaking Heat Wave


Mine’s sixty-eight—I’ve been 
“Cooling my heels” over an hour 
And the priority slip I’m now using 
As a bookmark says my waiting 
Time should’ve been around nine 
Minutes; in the meantime, I’ve been 
Making do in the overworked air- 
Conditioned inner sanctum 
Of the nightmare 

Institution which looks after 
My rapidly dwindling bantam 
Nest egg with all the care 
Of a crazed mother hen, 

And reading a slender volume 
Of poems called Sleepwalker’s Songs,
All the while thinking of what I could do 
If my nest egg were fatter, watching 
Customer after customer go up 
To the teller and walk out again 

Onto a dazzling, searing asphalt so hot it could fry 
Enough dinosaur eggs to feed an onslaught 
Of famished, day-dreaming somnambulists 
Armed to the teeth with nothing 
But a slew of cool blank checks— 
I wonder what 69’s thinking of. 

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

A Few Words For Richard Hugo


He never liked whitewashing phantoms. 
Gray haunted his poetry. He used it 
To wash all shades of grayness away. 

Sunday, August 12, 2018

Ham Method Actor In Deep Shit


Here’s your cue, Horatio:

You’ll never find your true voice 
If you don’t plumb the depths 
Of the shallowness surrounding you—

Cast us a line when you do. 




Friday, August 10, 2018

Wet Behind The Ears


That old Greek he knew you 
Can’t step into the same 
River twice, for even 
If you could, you’d still find 
Yourself high and dry 
On the banks of certain 
Uncharted shit creek 
With nothing better 
To do save wait 
To pay a certain smart-ass 
Ferryman to paddle 
Your dumb ass across. 


Wednesday, August 8, 2018

Here's Your Daily Dose Of Blue Mornings' Treacle


Each day you get up you know 
The sun must be 
Somewhere out there, too— 

You just have to rise 
A little higher, only 
Earthbound creatures find it

Hard to do. 

Sunday, August 5, 2018

Futility Is Alive And Well In Aetos, Messenias, Greece


Out there 

Under a thick canopy 
Of centenarian 
Plane trees with her 

Tried and true 
Black walking 
Stick, that feisty 

Old woman jabbing 
The ground, dead set 
On keeping 

The pathway 
To her home clear 
Of any intruding 

Dead leaves 
Set on squatting 
There permanently.


Thursday, August 2, 2018

Catharsis On The Threshold


Straightaway as you 
Open wide the narrow blue 
Window shutters 
Of the old stone house 
By the sea, wave 
Upon wave of small white- 
Capped memories begin 
Spilling in, slowly 
Washing the grit 
That clings to the grey 
Walls clean— 

Welcome back, pilgrim, 
Again and again. 


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