Bankrupt Wordsmith Soon To Be Back In Business

Out of the thick dark- 
Green blackness of vegetable 
Life smothering the derelict 
Study of the late obscure 
Minor underground poet, 
There comes the fevered 
Munching of eager beaver 
Ghost writers rabidly attacking 
A bolted, worm-eaten door. 

The Squint-eyed Kid Strikes (Out) Again

Sun, it’s time you stopped 
Playing with me—how 
On earth am I 

To reflect on all 
That’s under the heavens 
When you’re always on the run? 

Gullible Masochistic Supplicant Beseeches Imagist Muse

My unerring, yea, insouciant 
Lady, should you deem it fit 
To kill me with a panoply 
Of words cutting 

To the heart, please 
Please with your leave
Before I depart, let me see 
How they all hit the mark. 

But For The Grace Of God: Making America Great Again

If it’s true that 
Time waits 

For no man, yet 
Neither does it 

Stand still, caught 
As we are 

In such a debilitating 
Conundrum 

And drained of any 
Feasible exit plan, 

It’s not unreasonable to expect 
The great unwashed will 

Opt for the next up-and-coming 
Maelstrom to suck the whole 

Godforsaken kit and caboodle 
Down, down, down to where 

Everything settles in
To the muck 

Of just being there. 

Making The Best Of Small Talk

under the shade 
of the huge 

coffeehouse maples, 
where the receipts 

of what has been 
spent so far 

flutter round my feet 
like the dying 

leaves soon to be 
scurrying over 

the crushed gravel 
when Fall rolls round 

again, I cannot 
help but overhear 

the mindless droning small 
talk of grownups 

behind me—all 
the while 

my eyes riveted 
on the children hard 

at play in the play- 
ground opposite, 

and though not 
a praying man 

myself, I swear 
I can almost 

hear the desperate 
small white cry 

of the child I once was 
pleading with me, 

telling me don’t 
give it a second 

thought, no matter 
what you might be 

thinking, make the best 
of it, it’s all we’ve got.