Memo From One Of The Wolves On Wall Street

Share and share alike? 
Never did buy 
That piece 
Of pap—why 

Should we 
Portion out half 
Of what we have 
To some ungrateful 

Misfits clearly unfit 
To reap half 
Of our precious hard- 
Bought misanthropy? 

Better we let the wretches 
Dawdle in their misery. 

Poem Fraught With Symbolism

I bet someone could write 
A poem worthy 

Of Baudelaire’s best 
About these two 

Doves suddenly 
Lifting them- 

Selves up from 
The gashes 

Of plowed land where 
They were 

Foraging for food, 
Now darting lovey- 

Dovey from branch to branch 
Of shimmering silver- 

Green olives with 
Nary a hawk in sight, 

But I wouldn’t 
Stake my life on it. 

How To Make A Killing In Commodities

Tut-tut, not to worry— 
In brief, the bulk 

Of the argument being 
You have to haul your own 

Weight all the way over 
To the right side 

Of the tracks or else 
Some pell-mell runaway 

Freight train makes double 
Sure your burden is disposed of 

Properly, so as to fit 
Such a moving occasion. 

Ill-Conceived With The Speed Of Sleight

Thinking you can fashion 

A living out of writing 
Poetry’s tantamount 
To believing 

There are hobbyhorses that fly. 

Immaculate Minimalist Body Poetic

my dear fly- 
weight mates, stay 

clear of midges 
that swarm round 

you in your spot 
less white and do 

nothing but maculate. 

Ruminations On Pulling The Wool Over One's Eyes

In this dazzling midday heat, 
It’s comforting to think how 
Contented the innocent 
Lambs must be, gathered 
With no care in the world
Under the protective canopy 
Of the blessèd olive tree, 
Suckling their mothers’ teats 
As if their lives depended 
On it, and indeed how 
Easy it is to be sucked in 
By that old rustic wives’ tale— 
A bit harder to digest how 
Gamboling they are 
Soon to be led off 
By city-bred wolves 
In always appropriate 
Cutting-edge abattoir attire. 

Definitely Not Lemmings: A Benediction

No, no, not these 
Poor misguided 
Driven ones that 
Dive headlong in 
Droves over 
The nearest head- 
Land, dear God, let me

Please in my next life be 
Anything, anything 
Save those consumed by that 
Sweet, deadly urge to self- 
Destruct without never 
Ever knowing why, 
Amen.

The Dawning Darkening

The village elders were fond 
Of telling us the waxing 
Sickle slowly lowering it- 
Self in the western sky 
Would be full before 
We knew it and empty 
Itself just as fast— 

An eternity passed before 
We knew it. 

Smug Wannabe Psychic

Insisted you could always tell 
What we were about to say 
By the look on our faces— 
How we chuckled back then 
But then again how 
Were any of us to know? 

As it so happens, second- 
Guessing the future’s a lot 
Like digging your grave 
Specially now when 
Everybody round you turns out 
Dead right grim in the end. 

Fantastic Freshly Plowed Centenarian Olive Grove

Amidst the frenzied clamorous 
Backdrop of cicadas readying 
To draw the curtain and call it 
Still another night, the dumb 
Eye strains before finally 
Falling upon fold after fold 
Of newly-wrought furrows 

Under the wrinkled arching 
Brows of row after row 
Of stately silent grotesques— 
My arrogant fellow bit players, 
If you please, please observe how 
Once more the stage is being set 
For yet another humbling 

Twilight. 

Great Expectations Till Hell Freezes Over

In the searing July heat 
Hot enough to broil 
A souvlaki on asphalt,

This seventy-year-old man 
Has just crossed the street 
To a neighbor’s where he

Picks up a goodly-sized 
Leafy branch from a freshly
Pruned lemon tree, tenderly 

Brings it back and then 
Proceeds to dig a hole 
In his garden, plants 

The amputated 
Limb, waters it profusely 
And waits for it to take root, 

Come hell or high water. 

Heads Up, Or What's That You Say?

I said Poet, 

If you’re finding it hard 
To hear the sounds 

Of silence, you’re 
More than likely 

Talking your ears off. 

Welcome Mat

This dreary derelict mud 
Brick hovel in which squat

A Roma family 
With six kids all

Under twelve also 
Sports a brood 

Of scrawny kittens 
Numbering about 

A dozen taking in 
Today’s brilliant 

Sunshine in front 
Of a hanging 

Pied blanket 
Serving as 

Its front door. 

Immaculate Cycladic Morning

From round, blue-green 
Plastic tub next to her

Frail frame, white-spattered 
Black-robed widow wielding

Long-handled red brush 
Attacks greying house

Walls with wide swaths 
Of blinding fresh whitewash—

Soon everything will smell 
Of clean wedding night sheets. 

Turning Point

You know she’s right 
And you’re dead wrong 

When she sees red and 
You’re already past 

The last green light, 
Long past gone. 

 

Gloam

Slowly pedaling past black ornamental 
Cast ironwork railing round small candle-

Lit cemetery cramped by too many large marble 
Tombstones crested with white crosses where 

No matter what you’re thinking, 
The mind always reaches 

A blank there.