Troubling Inner Sanctum

Call me 
Quasimodo if you want, 
But whenever I feel 
I have to venture deep 
Inside the troubled 
Heart, I make doubly sure 
All doors are barred 
And the window 
Shutters shut tight— 
I brook no grotesque salivating 
Straitjacketed curiosity 
Seekers disturbing 
My mind’s deformed slant. 

Kudos for Joe Blow

Congratulations, sport! 
In belated recognition 
Of your exemplary service 
Above and beyond the call 
Of the daily drudgery roster, 
You’ve been selected 

To receive everything 
Your heart desired but 
Never had time for before 
Now, but you must act now— 
Please sign on the dotted line; 
You can read your eulogy later. 

"Write a Poem for Me, Papa?"

If I’m reading her 
Three-year-old mind 
Right, this could mean 
Either she wants me 
To write another 
Poem about her 
Or for her or who- 
Knows-what but how 
Tell the difference, 
And find words 
To describe how 
Her mind works 
When she’s disarming 
Me so ingenuously right 
Now with that telling 
Look that’s looking right 
Through me as if to say 
It’s all right, Papa 
Whatever you write, 
You’ll still be 
The only grandpa 
I have who’s a poet— 
Whatever that is. 

Snuffed, Or the Demise of Existentialism

When your livid 
Being’s being torn asunder
By frivolous absurdities

And you find yourself burning
All your candles before 
They come to an end. 

Hopeless Romantic Aspirant

It appears 
I have no worldly ambitions 
In the least, at least that’s what 
My discerning, highly 
Esteemed colleagues mostly 
Accuse me of, and I suspect 
They are right—after all, 
All I’ve ever wanted is 
To make myself comfortable 
Before a blank piece of paper 
And make believe 
It’s my whole world.