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? 

Foolproof Triphasic Lie Detector Test

1. 
To tell the truth, 
One of us is lying 
Through his teeth. 

2. 
I’ll find out who 
If it’s the last thing I do. 

3. 
Best keep away from me 
Or else you’ll lose 
Your dentures, too.

How Not To Lay An Egg

Pure poetry I tell you— 
How deftly 

Weasels slit the throats 
Of brooding sleeping hens— 

Never a need for needless 
Revision again.

Now On The Silver Screen, Pixamax Productions Proudly Presents "The Bigly Bang-up Sixties"!

Where

The meanest gang in town 
Was getting pretty itchy 
As they unhitched 

Those dazzling diamond- 
Studded belts, the newest 
Comer on the scene was made 

To hitch up 
That oh so come-on skirt 
Above her comely head, 

Above that heavenly body 
The stars 

Exploded one by one, 
Four studs literally 
Dropped dead— 

Mum’s the word, 
Everybody said. 

Refining Further The Fine Art of Artful Confession

Running away from what you know 
You must say, don’t you always 

Skip over that failing in a jiffy, 
Hoping it will forever go away, 

And then backtrack over what 
You didn’t say, thinking never 

To do it again, 
Come what may? 

Wind Song: An Epitaph For Lorine Niedecker

There’s a livelier sheen on the dead 
Leaves of autumn than in a dullard’s 
Air and oft Lorine had seen it there. 

Quintessentially Human Defense Mechanism

That small 
Black-and-white 
Cur curled up 
Like a cinnamon 
Roll on a thread- 
Bare throw rug in 

Front of this 
Baker’s doorway 
Day and night come 
Rain, sleet or snow, 
Don’t tell me that 
He’s not like 

All those other poor 
Souls you think don’t 
Know any better than 
To come in from 
The cold—he doesn’t 
Know that. 

Hail and Farewell To Fair-Weather Friends

Adieu, adieu, you too 
Facile, two-timing 

Fickle near rhymes, too— 
I always felt deep down 

You were too close, 
Too good to be true. 

Crepuscular Perambulating Septuagenarian

Ruminating towards end 
Of day, approaching

Olive grove full of wrinkles 
And furrows, cicadas drumming 

Their delirious ancient song well 
Into the night, leaving 

Everything plain as day!

Finding The Rightful Road To Being What You Eat

Pilgrim— 
Break your bread so 
As to nourish yourself 
Accordingly—you may begin 

By straightaway feeding 
Your vanity less 
And eating humble 
Pie to surfeit. 

Catch Me If You Can

In the calm 

Before the storm, calm 
Wind spirit soon gone before 

Some said it goes on 
And on and no good 

Man knows every time where 
In the mad dash it went, 

And who throws caution 
To the winds praying fervently 

Not to worry when unspeakable 
Evil rends the storm 

Doors of the beleaguered 
And once more unspeakable 

Evil is done. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor On Cheapskate Curmudgeon Caught Soaking Dentures In Half-Empty Water Glass

I gather 
It’s a chore your 
Not thinking of anything 
Else so what 
You most likely attend to 
As you contemplate 
Your sunken cheeks 
In your chintzy 
Bathroom mirror is what 
You should’ve sunk 
Your teeth in all 
These years 
But didn’t. 


Moderator's comment: Grrr. . . .if there’s but one iota of a chance my alter ego is spreading false—aka “fake”—news about his better half of a cur, I can assure him this mutt’s teeth are real. https://i.chzbgr.com/original/8257568768/hA0F95665/

Parting With Your Fantasies Is Such Bittersweet Sorrow

Where you are 
At any given 

Moment and where 
You think you are 

Going rests on 
The mistaken 

Assumption you have 
Always been here. 

Winter Of Our Discontent

Filthy room at the top, stinking 
Cot in the middle, debauched 
Incessantly by wine, women 
And bawdy songs in-between 

The purple tomes 
Fall in Flames and Depraved 
Come Spring, let him who remains 
Unremorseful all the way 

Down to the lower depths 
Be the first to violate 
The oh-so-sacrosanct 
Maculate hypocrisy within.