Celestial

Fast approaching twilight, 
It seems all terrestrial 

Bodies start 
Levitating under 

The profound
Gravity of the situation. 

If Jimmy Cagney Had Been a Conceptual Poet (And Clayton Moore His Flarfist Sidekick)

“The devil you say!” but 
I bet you’d have found 
His word worth every penny, 

Like his classic Take that, you dirty copper— 
As he filled each poem full 
Of slugs, assaying the slime

Bags shrinking to a trail of silver 
Saliva while the masked man 
Plugged poor Pegasus full

Of debased mettle. 

Sixth Sense

perambulating 

in 
narrow 
lane 

night 
scents 
flowering 

out 
sleep 
walking 

again— 

Desultory

Out thinking 

Past midnight, clouds 
Drifting, half-moon 

Looking on 
Starry-eyed 

Galaxies moving 
Light years away. 

A Poem Should Be (4)

Just 

As short as 
A jury’s sequestered 

Deliberations in 
An open-and-shut 

Case, just in case 
The poet’s out 

To lunch.