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. 

"All the Leaves Are Brown and the Sky Is Grey"

Forget Mother Nature’s signs 
Like falling leaves, a sudden dark 
Chill in the air, nights lengthening slowly 
Days dwindling down and you drawing 
A blank about everything coming your way. 

One thing’s for sure, though— 
You know you’re not dreaming when 
The snowman rounds the corner 
And Mama and Papa no longer 
Come out to play. 

Elation Does Have Its Bounds, Comrades

For example, you will have 
Noticed when finished 
With a fiery piece of polemic the feeling 
Of complete annihilation— 
This is a sign 

You should rid yourself of all 
Superfluous shrapnel and pull 
Yourself together in time 
For the next round 
Of resounding salutations.