Cogito, Ergo Cogito Sum

Just when you think 
You’ve thought 

Everything through 
And left—as they say— 

No stone unturned
Behind you, guess who 

Turns up unannounced 
And incognito, affecting 

A pronounced stony silence 
And turns everything upside 

Down on his return. 

Traffic Management For Musing Pedestrian Poets

On soft 

Little black 

Cat’s paws 


White spaces


The words

Cross the page 

Accordingly.

Confucius Say Still Not Enough Material Kindling To Make Mankind Great Again

Though no dearth 
Of consumptive homeless 
Hearths flickering on and off,

In dead of winter gathering feeble 
Stacks of splintered hearts 
More than enough 

To consume them.

Besting The Great Equalizer

I don’t know how 
You did it, dude, but 

No more are you 
The fool 

You once were, 
You’re also wiser 

No longer. 

Enter Stellar Radio Active Cosmic Conundrum

Hmm—if it's true
The world turns 

In silence, why 
On Earth 

Are we static? 


 

A Poem Should Be (18)

Indestructible, lasting almost 
Forever, like that ludicrous 

Prickly pear cactus poking 
Its barbed head of fruit through

The toughest thick slab 
Of concrete, even after being 

Through thick and thin, fire 
And water or, believe it 

Or not, crushed to smithereens 
By crazed bulldozers hell- 

Bent on erasing it 
From the face of the earth 

To make way for some new 
Abominable, transient 

And quite prickless, 
Construction. 

Parting Ways

The fickle winds blow 

                    The clouds this way 
And that way before you 

Hear the silence.

Fatal Attraction

When one goes where one has to,
What’s the use of asking why? 
---Huuklyeand Cinquor 

Like it or not, let the poem 
Walk away scot free 

And it will take you with it 
With no second thought. 

In Defense Of Minimalism Per Se

Brevity in poetry doesn’t mean 
You have little to say, it means 

You have everything 
In the world to say 

And too little 
Time to say it. 

Right There

Yes, in the end this is 
What it means to be free— 

The world feels right 
When you are so, 

And that’s where 
You should be.

Late Autumn Mystery Unfolding Under Plane Tree

Not just the startled 
Cackling of the murder 

Of crows lifting off 
At the sight of our passing,

But the crackling also
Of burnished gold swirling 

Leaves letting go. 

Should A Poem Be Or Not Be Like You Want It To Be?

For the sake of this 
Poem, let’s go out 

On a limb and say 
Ferocious— 

A scurvy feral 
Feline tensing it- 

Self to scurry up 
A budding 

Tree, all set to seize
The moment

A carefree song 
Bird alights on 

That nearest now quivering 
Thin green limb for all 

The innocent 
To see. 

After Archilochos: Unconditional Surrender

]mischievous [those] 
] 
] 
]lascivious girls 
]
] [ ] [ ] [ ] keep
] 
]coming and [all?] us 
]enamored 
] 
]of [our] armor[ed] [dick?] 
] 
]heads can do 
] 
] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] 
] 
]with [our] spears 
] 
] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] pointedly 
] 
][blunted?] 
] 
] [ ] [ ] [ ] is 
]
]run 
]           run 
]                      run . . . . . . .
] 
] 
]

Seriously Jilted Beau

I told you back then—play
This muse for a sucker once
Too often and you’ll find me
Doing—with a new twist—
That old song and dance you
Thought you knew the motions to
All too well, the beguine that begins

I should have known better 
With a girl like you, 
That I would love 
Everything that you do
And I do, hey, hey, hey,
And I do. . . . . . . . . .

You say you got the hots for me
Still but with all your screwing
Up, your never-ending Hoochie-
Coochie with you, you, you--
Hey, hey, hey, guess what
Doggerel licker, no longer
Do I for you.

Organization Manunkind

“Progress is a comfortable disease” 
—e.e. cummings 

Fly-by-night well 
Wishers and deep in 

Shallow thought thinkers 
That abide by laws that suck 

The down-and-out 
Body even deeper in. 

Future Eulogy For An Unknown Elderly Poet

Poetry isn’t what’s written
And then left to wither unread— 

It’s the rose you picked still
Fresh in the dead of winter, dedicated

To the life you led.

Dandified Melancholic Soul In Search Of Itself

—“If the shoe fits, wear it.” 

Prolonged darkness in manner becomes
A burden lighter to bear not because
You become accustomed to it,
But because it becomes you better.

Free As A Bird

Think of the wind 
With nary a care 

In the world and you 
Carrying no name. 

Speculation, Ltd.

Where the world was 
Already over the end, 
And in deep

Shit long before you went 
Ahead and gave it 
What it lacked the least— 

Another plunger. 

Blasphemous Ephemeral Mortal

God is running late

And the poor man bursts

Because he can’t wait.

—Greek proverb

God,

               Everything in

               Good time you say,

I say this

               Damn specious life flies, so

               Will your precious lies, what

               Say you to that?

Don't Ask: Questions Of Indirection From The Boondocks Of The Southern Peloponnese

Where but where you are
Now could you have been

Happier? Here where
The last thing you need

To ask is if you are.

In The Dark No More

Your eyes are getting very heavy— 
Soon the lids will shut tight 

And you will enter a space full 
Of light unlike the one you were in for 

So long before—that one had a door, 
This one has one too but 

It’s never been opened before. 

Herakleitos On Solid Upright Citizens Of The World

Who says even sleeping 
Men are doing the world’s 
Business and helping it 
On its way though he also adroitly 
Avoids mentioning they should not be 
As sleepwalkers perambulating out there 
In broad daylight trying to show us 
The right and true way. 

Where We Hope To Be Some Future Fall

A burnished bronze jasmine 
Leaf twirling on the end 
Of a spider’s thin silver thread, 

In the slanting sunny late afternoon 
Air, soon to join its brothers and sisters 
In the perennial pied carpet of death 

And rejuvenation,
Our good mother 
Earth always there. 

Pot Of Gold

Before it all evaporates, let us take in 
Our good fortune, this morning’s 

Double rainbow in which two 
Wild doves perch 

On a telephone line, cooing 
Of the long-awaited approaching 

Change of weather. 

Say It In Greek Or Else

“The Logos is eternal.” 
--Heraclitus 

"I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free."  
--epitaph on the grave of Nikos Kazantzakis 


In other words, approaching 
The logos means one must 
Let the spirit breathe 

Free, other- 
Wise, you are just 
That much closer 

To being 
Part of the living 
But still 

Quite dead. 

Complacency's Whetstone

That deadening
Silence which hones it-

Self against the ears
Of the complicit, how

Deafening it is indeed
To those who cannot

But hear it.

The Ultimate Last Poem?

Oh, what joy! 
Surely that must be it

Over there, waiting in line 
With bated breath, like so

Many others before it 
For the last stop, no 

More questions asked, 
Period. 

Watermark Writ In Marble

So you think you are carving
Out a name for yourself—well,

Keats knew better than that,
And he wasn't a stonemason.

After Wittgenstein: Bellwether Logical Propositions

It may snow tomorrow 
Or it may not 

Happens to be at once both
An empty form and also
Absolutely accurate,
But does not tell us
Anything about what
The weather will be like
Tomorrow, that remains

The job of poets.

Anonymous: Lyric Mermaid On Lesbos*

Oh, how distant Aphrodite’s 
Lush, full-bodied labials are, 

While I, by loneliness wretched, 
Half-crazed and wasted, am fated 

To lie here—how long?—bemoaning 
My lot on this solitary, desolate shore. 

*from The Erotic Aegean: An Anthology Of Greek Love Poetry, Eressos, Mytilene, 1969, (trans. Saffilis Zaengmac).

Welcome To Bonehead Logic 096 At Ye Olde School Of Hard Knocks

where 
ante- 

diluvian 
hard 
core 
faculty’s 
faulty 

neo 
syllo- 
gisms 

be
come 
soft 

in 
the 
head 

mean 
old 
vulgar 
mind 
fucks 

You Asked For It So You Better Believe It

Sport, I told you straight out 
You were light years out 

Of your league when you insisted 
Your poetry had more polish 

And pizzaz than me and boy 
Have you ever got a whopper 

Of a shiner to show for it now, 
You see? 

Follow The Money

Moonlighting 

Moonlit snail spills 
Shining track of silver 

Trail behind it. 

Whatever, Whenever

Why is it when 

You arrogantly think you know 
Everything, the poem— 

Knowing you better—always 
Comes out 

Sounding ignorant as ever.

So Long, It's Been Good To Know You

As long as you were fodder, 
They were one with you all the way, 
Till you passed them before

The end of the journey—now 
They’re drowning in the wake 
Of your passing, no longer able 

To pass on the good times your way. 

Sounding Your Self Out

sounds 

like 

some 

where 

out 

there 

you 

are 


where 

every 

step 

you 

take 

takes 

you 

forever 


to 

get 

there

Great Galactic Enterprise

All we’ve ever given of ourselves has never been 
Quite enough to complement the longing 

For nebulous stardom 
That still lies within. 

Epitaph For A Self-Proclaimed Self-Made Man

For one who 

Never tired of saying I got this 
Far with nothing but hard work, 

You must be dead 
Tired by now. 

Higher Love

One comes to love the impossible because 
One does not want to find himself 
Feeling low loving just anything. 

Now You Think You See It, Know You Don't

Do not kid yourself 
Do not waste your time 
Do not write 

Poetry if you think 
Poetry’s a cheap trick 
And you a sleight of hand 

Man fobbing your audience 
In wonderland with a rabbit pulled up- 
Side down from a top hat—there’s more 

To poetry than that, so stop 
Your monkey business, get back 
To catching tigers in red weather, 

And leave it at that. 

Now Or Never: The Next Life

The next time you feel that dark 
Urge to curse the incorrigible 
Adamantine white page lying so 

Smugly before you, cast your sights 
On to when you imagine 
It will pay you back 

Tenfold with nothing 
Save hard, brilliant flashes 
Of blinding light— 

But (and this is all it asks of you)— 
Only if you serve it right 
Here, never in that other life. 

Brief Elegy For A Lyric Poetess, Passing At 58

In your short, bittersweet stroll through 
Life’s unavoidable highs and lows, 

You were as full of life as your poems were 
Touchingly sorrowful. 

Sailing The Dream (Spindthrift)

air                     rows 


sea                    waves


bow                   quivers 


 

Too Much, Too Soon

You know you’ve been trying 
Too hard to find your voice 

When you find out too late 
You’ve lost it. 

Lovely Being

a word in a poem 
enclosed in a bottle 

opened by one 
you love. 

Closure For Beginners Up Against A Wall

The next time you feel 
A desire to execute 

The poem 

Of your life, make sure 
You wind it up with a blank 

Sheet of paper. 

Suddenly, Phlegm

What on Earth were you 
Expecting, poet? The expected almost 
Never comes when expected— 

If and when it does decide 
To make its entrance, 
More often than not

It acts as if it were 
An indifferent ephemeron 
Setting down miniscule droppings

On the tip of your dumbstricken tongue, 
While all you can do is expectorate, 
Expectorate profusely till kingdom come. 

Being An Irreverent, Albeit Clean Defence Of Nihilism

As long as the blank 
Page insists on

Staying immaculate 
White, what appears

Out of nothing 
In the end 

Must be predicated 
On how well

Our maker conceived 
The abject absurdness

Of his maculate plight. 

In Passing, Dear Heavenly Demiurge

Though it has nothing whatsoever 
To do with language 

Right or wrong, just fondle 
Sweet basil once ever so 

Lightly and its scent stays full 
Of innocent angels years after 

You’re long gone. 

Haiku: Carmina Trumpana

One fragment follows 
One more equally broken 
Specious argument. 

What We, As Law-Abiding, Solid Citizens Of A Great Nation, Are Discouraged From Acknowledging

Hear, hear— 

That auspicious 
Gritty feeling that keeps 
Gnawing fitfully 

Against the gristly hollow 
Of our most nauseously fitting 
Specious inner ear. 

75-Year-Old Pedestrian Versifier Temporarily Stopped In His Tracks By 7th Century BC Fragments Of Archilochos

[ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] damn it all 

[ ] [ ] Startled that [we?] are 

[ ] [ ] only now 

Starting [where?] 
To realize just how 

[ ] [ ] 

Moving this all is, [isn’t] it 
Too bad we can’t 

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] 

Put it in reverse 

Balcony With Ionian Seaview

Matutinal sea 
Of jasmine spilling 

Over corroded wrought 
Iron railing against white 

Washed wall splashed 
With streaks of light, 

Overwhelming pale 
Blue pastel light. 

Calling All Tone-Deaf Wannabe Poets

Oh, my goodness— 
D'ya hear her, 
Ignoramuses? 

If so, belt it out loud 
And clear, where 
‘Where’ sans the 'w' is out 

Of dumb necessity 'here', 
And not where you are 
By a long shot, dear. 

Right From The Word "Go"

--for John Levy, who’s always on the mark 

Let us take solace in the knowledge 
There are still poets out there who 
Take their reading slow and serious, 
And show us just how badass 
Some poems are and where 

They’re going when quizzical 
Others don’t know what 
To make of them— 

Those misguided ones who 
Think that if they leave them 
Alone, they’ll come back atoned 

For their transgressions, yet still sheepishly 
Dragging what's left of their farfetched tales 
Where else but behind them. 

The Getaway

Someone writes 
And shows you how 
To say what you’ve been 
Wanting in in every way; 
Try though you may, you will 
Never find the words 
To thank him—it’s as if 
He’s your other self now 
Lost in packing up those words 
That always want to get away. 

Haiku: Landlubber's Wholly Daft Spirit

breeze bringing auras 
awash with finny prey sounds 
fishy in your head.





 

To A Boxer Recently Passed

You were by definition
Like most of us who 
Spar in the shadows, there 

Where there are few, 
Too few clearly definable 
Inanimate objects to pummel 

To death, too. 

After Yeats

Ah yes, that old pilgrim 
Soul in you you once thought 
Would never come to rest, now 
By whose bequest and urgency 
Has it given up its quest? 

Getting Under The Surface Of Things

You can bet 
Your bottom dollar 

Wherever there’s immaculate 
Crisp underwear flapping in 

Blinding sun- 
Light, pure naked 

Poetry’s in the air! 

Besotted Seaman's Chambers

What say we drink, lads 

To the clink precious 
Glassy pebbles make as they 
Make their way under- 
Water near fabled shores— 

Next bring up 
That drunken image 
Of a nautilus flush 
With pearls 

Of wisdom scuttled 
On the bottom 
Of some blind poet’s wine- 
Dark sea floor, 

Then drink, drink till 
There’s no more rhyme
Or reason to remain 
Afloat any more. 

Perseverence First Of All

To even think of being 

A poet, right off 
One must remember not 

To try so hard as to forget 
You were not born one. 

The Poet As Panderer

Words come easily 
When you play hard to get— 

When you go soft, they’re just 
Someone else’s bitches. 

Poem Surreptitiously Called "The Susurrus Of Curtains"

Born to be ambiguous, 
Whatever he meant 
By titling it thus, 
One thing’s clear— 

In without his knowing 
It, he would have to 
Talk his way out of it 
Or else— 

Huuklyeand Cinquor On Going In Circles

Someone’s forever
Telling me 

Somewhere round 
Here is a square peg. 



Moderator’s comments: The apotheosis of the absurd in only eleven words; however, what remains of my frazzled logic impels me to peg the odds at 99-1 that prior to writing this “exercise in futility,” Cinquor envisaged the specter of the great Archimedes (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archimedes) uttering his famous last words “Do not disturb my circles” just before an enraged, mathematically ignorant Roman soldier “put him in a pine box” for what he thought was insubordination when, in reality, all the good mathematician had in mind was to continue his line of thought undisturbed, outside the box!

 

Haiku: Poet Overboard!

Rudderless craft, why 

Do your gulls keep flying in 
Eccentric circles? 

Stay Of Execution

Living on borrowed 
Time, the words were 

Anxious to say what 
They wanted but without 

Sounding too grasping—they knew 
All too well the absurdity 

Of a sentence truncated 
In midair 

Without pausing as long 
As humanly possible there. 

Haiku: Cause And Effect

Where the words entered 
A rush of canebrake rustled—

The wind stopped to breathe. 

Love Poem Scuttled By Inclement Weather

Once upon a time. . . . 


On Cloud Nine, 
I wanted to write one 
But the ink blotted 
Out the sun and you, 

You scudded so artfully 
Behind the nimbuses 
Of my mind and I just 
Sat there and dawdled, 

Dawdled my life away, one 
Time-worn teardrop at a time. 

LOL: A Singular Poetic Justice Indeed

How I do dislike it when 
A FB post provokes me bare- 
Facedly with the likes of 

“I bet none of my friends 
Will share this poem of mine,” 

And indeed I must concede 
How shamelessly I love it 
When I accede 

To the sender’s wishes 
And don’t. 

Why I Get Up Before Dawn

Why 
In such a world 
Of self- 

Inflicted pain, 
To anticipate 
The morning 

Breaking, and how 
That makes one wholly 
One again, that is 

The why and how of it, 
My still sleeping friend.

You Asked For It, So You Better Believe It

I’m telling it like it is 
When I say he was out 

Of his league when he kept 
Insisting his poetry had more 

Punch than a dullard’s eye could see, 
And boy has he ever got a whopper 

Of a shiner to show for it now, 
You see? 

Reaper's Got The Last Word

You sure you ain’t jiving us, 
You’re really on to something 
Big you’re dying to say? 

Don’t 

Let me stop you—get it 
Over with before you drop 
Dead in your tracts 

On the way. 

Poetic Wanderlust Partly Explained

Breathless 

You of the over- 
Worked beautiful 

Voice never faltering, mind that 
Wanders, wonder not.