Sucker Bait

Throw out any line at will 
If you will but always hope 
Something more

Than the one that got away
Surfaces when the poem happens
To reel you in again.

Once Is More Than Enough, Thank You

Approaching the twilight 
Years, finally 

Waking up early 
Enough one morning to see 

Day break, then going 
Right back to bed 

Too dead tired even 
To sleep on it again. 

Niggardly And Dutiful At All Costs

Precious the memories, so 
Dear in fact he keeps them 

Hoarded in a satchel given 
To him by a doting mother 

Who shilled him 
Into guarding it 

With his life till 
He’ll remember how 

Much he wasted of it. 

You Know Something's Not Right In Our Heads: The Syria Syndrome

When Uma Thurman’s Kill 
Bill’s car stunt crash that might 
Have decapitated her in 2003 
Gets more live coverage 
Than the twisted 

Lifeless 
Truncated 
Bodies 

Of kids blasted 
To pieces before 
Unbelieving eyes 

Every 
Living 
Day. 

Mean Times Iconoclastic

“What’s to be done or said in the meanwhile I don’t know, 
and what is the use of poets in a mean-spirited time?” 
—Friedrich Hölderlin, from “Bread and Wine” 


At such times, the true 
Believer’s mind believes

The eye can 
Take in only so much, 

And wonders if what 
It cannot see 

Otherwise is likewise as 
Unbelievably shattering, 

To say the least. 

One Scrambled Alter Ego Sandwich To Go

Y’know, dude, 
You don’t have to 
Put yourself out, 
Always asking 
What it is I want— 
It’s plain as the egg 
On your face— 
I want you to be 
A hard-boiled customer 
Who knows exactly what 
He wants—that’s your order— 
Try sinking your teeth into that.

King of the Mountain's Fantastic Leaps and Bounds

Trudging to grade 
School with their heads down, 

His two older sisters well ahead 
Of him, the boy spies 
The small beckoning

 
Hardened mound of sand 
At the abandoned building 
Site the girls have chosen 
To ignore, and which after 
Dashing at the speed of light

 
For all of twenty yards 
Yelling his head off, 
He now leaps from base 
Camp to the summit 
In one superhuman bound— 

 
Demonstrating once again, 
Esteemed ladies and gentlemen 
Of the Faculty of Cognitive 
Sciences, that learning by rote 
Was, is, and shall forever be 
Solely for the pedestrian 

Earthbound. 

Bliss

To fall 
Asleep next 
To your snoring 

Five-year-old grand- 
Daughter on 
Your right 

And your wife 
Sawing wood 
Next to her, 

Goodnight.

 

Art of the Deal

You keep telling me 
Having money’s hard 
Work and to make 
Do with what I’ve got, 
Which must be a lot 
Easier if one’s not 
A have-not—so what 
Say you slip me that 
Ace up your sleeve 
When I’m not looking 
And make believe 
I’m hard up as your lot. 

#Me Too

1. 

After lopping off 
A limping male 

Poetic limb or two, 
The liberated 

Muse’s shark-like mouth 
Cannot be said to be 

Sardonic, nor her smile ironic, 
Though some macho moronic 

Poets have gone so far 
As to call it romantically 

Emasculating— a void, 
A fathomless, yawning abyss. 

2. 

With all due respect 
To the free- 

Loving unfaithful 
Beastly romantic 

Percy, if Mary were 
Here, I’d surmise 

She’d find nothing grotesque
Or amiss with this fantastic script— 

After all she was 
Nobody’s monster, just 

Frankenstein’s perfect 
Ms. 

A Poem Should Be (14)

Resourceful— 

Like that home 
Less mutt taking 
In the winter sun 

Shine on 
The leeward side 
Of a derelict’s hovel. 

America Emaciated, Land of The Free Depraved

Eat your hearts out, you well- 
Heeled so-called emancipated 

Masses yearning to be free 
Of guilt by association, for you 

Too can now starve and torture 
Your selves with plenty 

Of generous home-school 
Helpings of stark impunity. 

(De)crypt(ed)

Who will calculate for us the cost of our decision to forget? 
--George Seferis 

No bones about 
It—of those departed 
And of their deeds 

Most memorable, 
Most haunting 
Naught shall 

Always remain 
Unforgettably 
Undeciphered, 

For when all’s said 
And done, who’s to say 
And yet? 



 

Reaching Poetic Inspiration In Four Easy Steps

1. 

Wait long enough 
For something to grab 
Your fancy. 

2. 

Get ready 
For nothing to pass 
You by. 

3. 

Don’t ever 
Blink in the wink 
Of an eye. 

4. 

If nothing materializes, repeat 
All steps above piously incanting 
Ghost Riders in the Sky.

 

Nipped In The Bud

If only 
Your resolve to turn over 
A new leaf was just 
As deep-rooted as that 

Desire to bury what is most 
Shallow in you, you just 
Might stumble your way 
To Fall, too. 

Please To Google “K'ung Futzu Gobbledegook Twitter Troller" For Important New Year Message!

Kong the Master Baiter say: 

Year of Dog this year and you 
Still surprised I speak 
Your language? Do not be— 

You see again 
And again nothing 
But claptrap come 

Naturally to pussy 
Grabbing prick 
Like me. 

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. 

Too, Too Rash Crash Diet

Oh, poor plump cat-mangled mouse spread- 
Eagled out in my orchard too, too dead— 

You fell hard for tart, fallen apples—better 
You’d gone with Mousse à la Pantry instead! 

Solemn Procession Approaching Uppermost Limits Of The Absurd

On corner 
Of cemetery 
Chapel, a lone 
Mourning dove 

Cooing on ash- 
Grey lantern 
Eyes coffin followed 
By black-clad widow 

And bereaved 
Ones passing below
On way to where 
Nothing follows. 

On The Death Of A Friend

i.m. George Tsiros, 1954-2017 


Blot it out of your mind, 
You cannot--it remains 

There, in that hollow left 
Of your brain--where 

That quivering candle was 
Snuffed out by a blast 

Of hard, hard rain. 

B/W Photo With Young Dummy In Shop Window, Raymond, Washington, 1972

You might not see him 
At first but he’s there 

Alright—on the left— 
Wearing a striped 
Long-sleeved shirt 
And dark pants, looking 
Smart as a tack as he gazes 
North onto a long gray 
Street stretching south 
Under an endless canopy 
Of low gray clouds— 

Three cars are parked 
With their noses pointing 
North, too—it looks 
Like it’s early spring, 
For the lone 
Leafless sapling 
On the sidewalk shows 
Signs of coming 
To life again. 


NB:photo courtesy of Tom Mattson, Administrator for FB page "You Know You Grew Up In Raymond When. . ." for which I thank him.

Physical

My eighty-year old 
Mother-in-law, now 

Well past recalling 
Anything that transpires 

Over a minute after 
It flashes before her, 

And so 

Thin and frail you can see her 
Bones pressing against 

Her flimsy night- 
Gown still remains 

Sharp enough to tell 
The young 

Doctor feeling her 
Body for any 

Tell-tale signs of 
Imminent danger 

To go to hell the moment 
He brushes what now passes 

As her breasts. 

Transient Harvest Moon

The sky was ever so moving last night— 
A surfeit of broken, moonlit pie crusts, 
So I thought to hesitate a while, take

My fill of it, or if not all, as much as 
I could, when I heard a voice I swear 
Coming from the dark side of the moon:

“Move on, you light-headed fool, 
Indulge as you will, what makes you 
Think you’ll ever get your fill?”