Flight in Dire Straits

Mon darkling 
Lecteur, bear with me if 
You will and draw out the first 
Word of this poem’s title, 
Making it two 
Syllables in 
Stead of one, 

Then sit back 
And imagine 
A lone pilot’s night run 
Full of light one 
Second away 
From heading 
Straight into the sun. 

Nepenthe, Et in Suburbia Ego

Your narcotic quiet settling 
Round the circle at the end 
Of the dead-end street— 

Even the white 
Lilies ringing it seem 
To have fallen fast

Asleep.



NB:  An Atmosphere You Can Trust

Knowing Your Rightful Place

Day after day, 
Those they call 
They say the world is 
One fucked up place, 
Dude and you, well 
You being part of that 
They, they say 
You have no right 
To say it isn’t—so just 
Stay where you are 
And fuck it. 

Summing Up

Mauve-blue 
Spires of cypresses

In twilight 
And the wanting 

Spirit aspiring more,
Evermore.

Eve of Imminent Extinction

Where over millenniums 
Myriads grew and grew
Only to shrink 
To two, now only one 
And before you 
Know it, no one 
To say goodbye to 
The setting sun, too. 

Romantic Poet Sick to Death of the Muse

Verily I have been lax with you 
Of late I know, but I swear 
Over the graves of my venerable 
Forebearers I will be lax no more— 

The next time I hear you 
Whistling in time to the lullaby 
Of bombs dropping softly 
Into laps of babes 

I shall drop everything, 
Drop straight to my knees 
And—dare I say it?— 
Pray you call no more. 

Skid Row Tenement House Rotgut

So rotten the rickety flight 
Of stairs you had to hold 
Your breath and nose all 

The way ending 
Up stinking drunk 
On the bum 

On the ground 
Floor landing up 
Side down.