Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Bottom Line


I will meet you halfway 
If that is what you want, 

But please don’t ask me 
To decide for you. 


Sunday, December 27, 2015

The Buffalos and Billy the Kid: Raymond, Washington, circa 1951


Sharp shooting pin- 
Ball wizards shoot 

Wads of nickels 
Into bellies 

Of blinking beasts, 
Then mosey on up- 

Stairs to vanishing 
Breed of past 

Prime whores still 
Alive but barely 

Kicking on dying First Street— 
Saloon’s mascot urchin 

Gets down on all fours 
Under Ballys— 

Has more than a hunch 
A few stray buffalo heads
 
Have yet to bite the dust. 


Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Bleeding Heart Haiku


Go on—bloody cry; 
Your heart hasn’t run out yet— 

Give it one more try. 





Sunday, December 20, 2015

Reverse Arrested Development


Why is it 

My three-year-old 
Granddaughter can 
Entertain herself 

For hours on end 
With nothing save her 
Imagination when 

I try musing with that idea 
I end up with nothing 
But a dead end. 





Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Flesh Wound


look again— 


nothing too 

superficial— 


how even this small 

sliver working it- 


self out 

has to 


heal. 




Saturday, December 12, 2015

Troubling Inner Sanctum


Call me 
Quasimodo if you will, 
But whenever I feel 
I have to venture deep 
Inside the troubled 
Heart, I make doubly sure 
All doors are barred 
And the window 
Shutters shut tight— 
I brook no grotesque salivating 
Straightjacketed curiosity 
Seekers disturbing 
My mind’s deformed bent. 

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Kudos for Joe Blow


Congratulations, sport! 
In belated recognition 
Of your exemplary service 
Above and beyond the call 
Of the daily drudgery roster, 
You’ve been selected 

To receive everything 
Your heart desired but 
Never had time for before 
Now, but you must act now— 
Please sign on the dotted line; 
You can read your eulogy later. 


Friday, December 4, 2015

"Write a Poem for Me, Papa?"


If I’m reading her 
Three-year-old mind 
Right, this could mean 
Either she wants me 
To write another 
Poem about her 
Or for her or who- 
Knows-what but how 
Tell the difference, 
And find words 
To describe how 
Her mind works 
When she’s disarming 
Me so ingenuously right 
Now with that telling 
Look that’s looking right 
Through me as if to say 
It’s all right, Papa 
Whatever you write, 
You’ll still be 
The only grandpa 
I have who’s a poet— 
Whatever that is. 


Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Snuffed, Or the Demise of Existentialism


When your livid 
Being’s being torn asunder
By frivolous absurdities

And you find yourself burning
All your candles before 
They come to an end.