Arrayed Amidst The Ruins

Every day standing is a lone 
Miracle in itself, naked lingering 

Vestige of a singular 
Life spent in the passing 

Panoplied columns 
Of so many vain- 

Gloriously fallen. 

You Too Can Buy A Pig In A Poke And Make America Grate Again!

Goose step my foxy ones, 
To Jiggery-Pokery Foundry, 

To found a mine pig, 
Home again, home again, 

Mind gone to crackers 
And pig iron, jiggity-jig! 

Trying To Come To Terms With The Selfish Coward In Me

Love, 
In a word 
I used to think 

You were so 
Overworked it hurt— 
I felt it now 

And then deep 
In this sham heart 
That struggled 

Against uttering 
Your name even 
When blessed 

With loved ones round 
Me and me always 
Ending in shame. 

Exsanguine Coup de Grâce

It’s vital 

The poet get rid of all 
Irrelevant details and get 

To the heart of the matter 
With as little blood 

Shed as possible. 

You Were Meant For Better Things

That’s what well- 

Wishing friends say when 
They see you’ve gone 

Astray and getting closer 
To going over 

The end but isn’t this 
As good as it gets? 

And even if 
It isn’t, please don’t 

Give me that 
Old song 

And dance about 
When

The going gets 
Tough, the tough 

Get going—I’m not 
Going anywhere 

Till you see 
The whites 

Of my eyes rock 
And rolling 

Back in their sockets. 

Moving Through Mean Times

Though you may 
Think you cannot, 

As Heraclitus observed some
Fifteen centuries ago, step 

Into the same river twice, 
If you do 

Remain listening to one 
To no end, you will never 

Stop asking yourself why 
Times like these never end. 

Quotidian

Of the innumerable 
Times you have 

Fallen prey 
To your own 

Indifference to the world 
Around you, you should 

Have noticed by now 
How it is 

These recurrent lapses 
Of your “better” 

Self reveal 
Their selves 

Through the manner 
In which they move 

Across your smug sleeping 
Visage come the first 

Light of day—though 
You can’t see it, you do 

Sense there’s something 
Out there trying 

To work it- 
Self out through you 

From under a skin so 
Thick it can’t 

Tell the difference 
Between night and day.


 

40-Love

Dear Mr. Frost: 

Looking back on what 
You once said 
About writing free 

Verse, I know it’s really far- 
Fetched but for the sake 
Of this poem let’s say you were 

Still alive—I bet you’d have 
A field day with this flighty 
Pesky little critter 

Of mine, more than likely 
Running it to the ground 
Like some frenzied color- 

Blind lepidopterist tra-la-la 
Traversing a pied meadow, 
Sporting a mean nonexistent net.

Heady Autumnal Aporia

At first sight not a leaf stirring— 
But hold on—what’s this light 
Headed grizzled one up to now 

Cropping the air with the greatest 
Of ease all the way down 
To an uncut graveyard plot?