Untitled (2)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

seed pods bur sting

in cemeteries

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

something’s definitely underfoot, silent

little green things are forcing

their way up through

unsuspecting earth.

After the Deluge

here I am

over the moon

smelling the earth

in the air

Conceptions of a Too Fertile Mind

American Beauty in the West Wing

After a painstaking search

Of the house and the grounds,

The knife in question was found

Planted in the heart

Of an immaculate rose bed.

.

gay blade

Deep

In the heart of the heart

Of the country,

Whoever has the balls

To sing

The body electric

Is in for a shock.

.

fodder for the machine

All the way

From the back of the class,

Sent to the front

By an electrifying

Drill instructor—

As in animal prodder.

.

bedtime story

All the world over, rosy-

Cheeked kids like you

Are being put to sleep;

In the abattoir, pale

Insomniac butchers count

Brainless sheep.

NB:  An old one, but perhaps still relevant.

You Think Poetry's Your Dish?

For connoisseurs perhaps, but never

Something garish to be shown off

Nor set aside, tastelessly mistaken

For garnish on a glutton’s plate.

On Juxtaposition

“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”

Straddler across lines

Between the forces

Of good and evil

In these mean times

What we need from you

Now is more than just—

A position.