Unquenchable One

There are many

Reasons one chooses to write 

 

Poems, though in my book, 

The only one that holds much 

 

Water is the one that’s writ 

On the bottom of a bucket 

 

With a hole in it. 

 

 

 

Midst Mad Midsummer Air

most 

in 

 

dis 

creet 

 

ber 

serk 

 

ci 

ca 

 

das 

jack 

 

hammering 

the 

 

stifling 

heat 

 

in/to 

 

in 

dis 

 

crete 

 

                        p. 

 

                                    i.     

 

      e. 

 

                             c. 

 

                                          e. 

 

                          s. 

 

of 

re 

 

in 

forced 

 

con/\/\/\/\crete.

 

Before We Were So Rudely Interrupted

Turn this 

Page or any other 

Like it to find 

Exactly what 

 

You’ve been 

Missing all these 

Many years; failing 

That, stay just 

 

Where you are— 

Someone just 

As lost as you will 

Turn up any minute— 

 

Now, where 

Were we? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Crying Out Loud, Poets, No More Killer Clichés

Holy Moses, pilgrims— 

Can’t you see 

 

No matter how 

Hard we try, 

 

There’s always one more just 

Around the bend, hiding 

 

In the bullrushes, burning 

To cry out 

 

Bloody murder 

In the name 

 

Of all those fellow travelers 

Soon to be 

 

Most foully dispatched. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Ditched

Still you keep saying 

You’re in it for the long haul 

Here by the wayside.

 

Incestuous Matter

Maculate 

Monstrous 

 

Issue and what 

To make 

 

Of ancestors who had 

No conception 

 

Of what they were about 

To procreate. 

 

 

 

 

 

Incredulous Braggadocios

Just you wait and see— 

You won’t 

 

Believe your eyes 

And ears what with

 

Such a final blistering 

Salvo, I shall bluster 

 

My way through what’s left 

Of this dull spirit- 

 

Less life—while we’re at it though, 

Think you could 

 

Hold on a minute so I can 

Catch my breath and stay

 

Even with you?

 

 

 

Archilochos In The Vineyards Of Thasos At Harvest Time

[burgundy stains but]

 

when [ ? ] grapes [blush]

and [   ] [   ] [   ] full-

 

[bodied] half-

[

[

[

naked Bacchus-

 

[soaked] maidens know

[

[

[no?] shame, may the

 

[manuscript here barely legible]

 

[

[

[

[goddess] help [me?]

 

[   ] [   ] [   ] [   ] I too

[

[

[

lust [   ] [   ] [   ] just

 

[evidence of violent shredding]

 

//////////////////

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

//////////////////

 

[the] same

[

[

[

[

[

[

 

[series of large gaping holes]

 

OOOOOOOOOOOO

OOOOOOOOOOOO

OOOOOOOOOOOO

 

Old Country Vignette, 1947

The big brother, next 

To the father, leaving 

The village for the new 

World, turning round, 

His arms outstretched, 

Crying out to the younger 

Standing motionless 

Next to the mother: Baby, 

Baby brother, why 

Won’t you fit into my pocket?

 

Take it Or Leave It

There is only one 

Reason one should 

 

Write poetry— 

One needs to. 

 

 

 

 

Unutterable Poetic Aural Disorder

Dear distinguished post- 

Modern colleagues—shout 

This dictum conundrum out 

 

Loud and clear 

If you can 

Hear it— 

 

Beyond silence there 

Can be no absence 

Of silence to speak of, 

 

Once the listener listening 

For the sound of his own 

Voice in the wilderness, 

 

Finally discovers 

It’s long gone over the hill, 

Taking his person with him. 

 

 

 

Emendating Diogenes The Dog

Who was said 

To have said so downright

Astutely all men think, 

 

But for some baffling 

Reason forgot to add 

Most of the time they

 

Just sit broodingly

Back on their haunches

And do nothing

 

But think they think.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Medium Of Augury

Some will 

Tell you your future 

By reading your palm, 

Others by perusing 

The intricate 

Patterns left in the dregs 

Of a demitasse that has been 

Turned upside-down 

And righted again, still 

Others will insist 

On a close examination 

Of the entrails 

Of some slaughtered 

Hapless animal, but whatever 

Your choice choose wisely, 

And with plenty of foresight,

As you have only one life to lose— 

Don’t waste it. 

 

 

 

 

Well-Addressed Aporia Of The Disenchanted Man

Bah, absolute 

Humbug I say—why 

Do we call it 

 

A brand-new day 

When there’s nothing 

New under the sun,

 

And hand-me-down

Habits continue 

To wear us away?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ossuary Dust

For those grief-stricken 

To the marrow, black is 

 

Never black enough, white 

Has to be washed clean 

 

To the bone, ashes are 

Best left alone. 

 

 

 

 

 

Definitely Not My Cup Of Tea

Get outta here, cupcake! 

Of what use is a slam 

Bang-up ejaculating protesting 

Poet who loves sucking 

Up the limelight but lacks 

The balls to give snow- 

Flakes like us the finger? 

 

 

 

After Seferis

Don’t waste the breath 

That spirit gave you— 

 

Breathe new life into it, 

Then pass it on. 

 

 

 

 

Good Old Salt Of The Earth

The newcomers 

To the game 

 

Ready or not, they’ll come 

Seek us out come hell 

 

Or whatever’s left 

Of high water the moment 

 

We’ve run out of places 

To hide and stranded 

 

In the salt pans and long past 

Healing, the waves begin 

 

To lick old wounds again. 

 

 

 

 

Mad Air Of Minimalism

the 

small 

 

birds 

twittering 

 

there- 

in 

 

the 

heart 

 

of 

the 

 

flowering 

pomegranate, 

 

their 

twiggy 

 

throats 

pulsing 

 

the 

all- 

 

encompassing 

fruity 

 

morning 

air.

 

 

 

 

 

God Only Knows How You Can

Toil in silence fashioning 

Taut well-oiled verse and stay 

Forever a cipher—but hot damn, 

 

Strut on stage, do a cool loose- 

Jointed shimmy holding fans in

Awe and slam-bam if you ain’t 

 

Straightaway the hottest act in town!

 

 

 

 

Heavyweight Greeting Card

you 

open

 

it 

and 

out 

 

of 

the 

blue— 

 

voila! 

 

a 

deep 

violet 

blue 

 

dragon- 

fly 

un- 

folds 

 

its 

paper 

thin 

 

wings 

and 

light 

 

as 

a 

feather 

 

weight 

lifts 

you 

 

up 

and 

away 

 

light 

as 

an 

ephemeral 

 

fly. 

 

 

 

Whitewashed Janus

The worst 

You can do is still

 

Better than what 

You’ve done 

 

So far—but try 

Till you’re blue 

 

In the face, 

For the likes 

 

Of me, 

You'll never be

 

Able to

Tell the difference.