Why Some Poets Have No Business Calling Themselves Angels

Oblivious to all 
That’s ugly 

On the face of the earth, 
They call forth heavenly 

Strains of pizzicato, expansive 
And graceful picking 

Within a modicum of space, 
There where 

They dance stark 
Naked with demons 

On the head of a pin. 

On the Refugee Problem Besetting the European Union

Dear brothers 
In a common cause, 
These teeming masses 
Of supplicants besieging 
Our sacred borders 
Seek nothing 
Save a sanctuary where 
They can rest their weary heads; 
Their plight does indeed cut 
Us to the quick—pray 
Let us show compassion, 
Home in on each and every one 
With heaven-sent teargas, plenty
Of angelic cudgels and lay 
Their worries to rest before 
The final, merciful kill. 

Orgasm of Greed: All or Nothing

Jack of all trades, master at abating 
All save avarice, no need 

To squirrel all the precious fun— 
Just work those nuts off silly 

Neutered all the way 
To no kingdom cum. 

Approaching Knowing Night Birds from Afar

Strange we should be so taken in 
By warm, childish cries alighting 

On our shoulders on the wings 
Of a sultry summer night, 

Only to have them turn palish 
Cold without our knowing it,

Grey silent owls taking flight.

 

Banner Year

This was another one 
Of those years 

That had something 
For everybody— 

Even the homeless 
Have-nots had the usual 

Copious shares of nothing.