Myrtle Vinca Minor under Cross-examination

Sure, you keep repeating 

You’re not trans-gender, 

But what’s that coy chick doing hiding 

In your shrubbery 

Feeding on your seeds? 

Surreal Sleepwalker

Out of deep sleep

And rising ever so

 

Slowly and completely

Mesmerized, I see what must be 

A green cheese moon adrift and waxing

 

The blue ocean floor at my feet. 

 

 

 

 

Logorrhea

You run off at the mouth
Whenever you say whatever
You say is what you have
To say and nothing’s going stop you.

Okay, logo-masochist, have it your way but
What’re you going to say when you’re sinking
In deep shit and nobody’s going to stop you?

Ornithologists' Organic Breakfast

—for Ans and Peter 

gingerly nibbling, small feathered 

friend preening on 

a 

thin 

seedy 

stalk 

of 

sweet 

smelling 

wild 

fennel— 

early birds, 

feast your eyes

for what we have 

here is a natural, 

a real honest-to-goodness 

con 

nois 

sir. 

Last of the Adobe Kings

 

On my way, I pass by

The remnants of another day—

His weathered visage

On the knoll—I see 

He sees me not,

Nor does he look away.