Parting With Your Fantasies Is Such Bittersweet Sorrow

Where you are 
At any given 

Moment and where 
You think you are 

Going rests on 
The mistaken 

Assumption you have 
Always been here. 

Winter Of Our Discontent

Filthy room at the top, stinking 
Cot in the middle, debauched 
Incessantly by wine, women 
And bawdy songs in-between 

The purple tomes 
Fall in Flames and Depraved 
Come Spring, let him who remains 
Unremorseful all the way 

Down to the lower depths 
Be the first to violate 
The oh-so-sacrosanct 
Maculate hypocrisy within. 

Too, Too Rash Crash Diet

Oh, poor plump cat-mangled mouse spread- 
Eagled out in my orchard too, too dead— 

You fell hard for tart, fallen apples—better 
You’d gone with Mousse à la Pantry instead! 

Solemn Procession Approaching Uppermost Limits Of The Absurd

On corner 
Of cemetery 
Chapel, a lone 
Mourning dove 

Cooing on ash- 
Grey lantern 
Eyes coffin followed 
By black-clad widow 

And bereaved 
Ones passing below
On way to where 
Nothing follows. 

On The Death Of A Friend

i.m. George Tsiros, 1954-2017 


Blot it out of your mind, 
You cannot--it remains 

There, in that hollow left 
Of your brain--where 

That quivering candle was 
Snuffed out by a blast 

Of hard, hard rain.