Monday, September 30, 2013


Fast approaching twilight, 
It seems all terrestrial 

Bodies start 
Levitating under 

The profound
Gravity of the situation. 

Friday, September 27, 2013

If Jimmy Cagney Had Been a Conceptual Poet (And Clayton Moore His Flarfist Sidekick)

“The devil you say!” but 
I bet you’d have found 
His word worth every penny, 

Like his classic Take that, you dirty copper— 
As he filled each poem full 
Of slugs, assaying the slime

Bags shrinking to a trail of silver 
Saliva while the masked man 
Plugged poor Pegasus full

Of debased mettle. 

Monday, September 23, 2013

Sixth Sense






Saturday, September 21, 2013


Out thinking 

Past midnight, clouds 
Drifting, half-moon 

Looking on 

Galaxies moving 
Light years away. 

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

A Poem Should Be (4)


As short as 
A jury’s sequestered 

Deliberations in 
An open-and-shut 

Case, just in case 
The poet’s out 

To lunch. 

Sunday, September 15, 2013

"All the Leaves Are Brown and the Sky Is Grey"

Forget Mother Nature’s signs 
Like falling leaves, a sudden dark 
Chill in the air, nights lengthening slowly 
Days dwindling down and you drawing 
A blank about everything coming your way. 

One thing’s for sure, though— 
You know you’re not dreaming when 
The snowman rounds the corner 
And Mama and Papa no longer 
Come out to play. 

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Elation Does Have Its Bounds, Comrades

For example, you will have 
Noticed when finished 
With a fiery piece of polemic the feeling 
Of complete annihilation— 
This is a sign 

You should rid yourself of all 
Superfluous shrapnel and pull 
Yourself together in time 
For the next round 
Of resounding salutations. 

Sunday, September 8, 2013

It's About Time You Told Me So

It’s gone before 
You know it but 

Since you asked, 
I’ll tell you all 

I know and then 
Leave you 

In the lurch 
To think about it— 

Please don’t 
Stop before 

The watchman says no. 

Friday, September 6, 2013

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

A Poem Should Be (3)


And dawn on you
Just like that 

Early morning wild 
Smell of field 

Fennel tickling 
Your nostrils making 

You feel pickled pink. 

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Brief Lyric on the Futility of Trying to Write Like Someone Else

At first glance it sounds 
So easy, almost 

Like child’s play until 
You try a combo verbal 

Double cartwheel summer- 
Sault and watch what’s become of you 

All these years crumbling away. 

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