Chainlink Fences

—for John Levy 


Who writes in a poem 
About a drawing 
About why he liked them 
As a child so swell 
And subdued 

We can well imagine 
Climbing up them even 
If our feet are too large 
And we too big 
For our britches.

Abandoned Barbecue

Long past its prime, 
This corroded 
Iron barrel cut length- 
Wise in half, whose 
Bottom was once 
Covered under a light 
Shovelful of topsoil, 
And over which 
A bed of hot char- 
Coals crackled, 
Searing dandy cuts 
Of tender, grass-fed beef 
Whenever the occasion 
To surfeit called for it, 
Now sprouts 
A generous helping 
Of organic dandelions— 

But do not fret, friends 
For old times’ sake, 
Let’s pretend we’re eating 
Our blooming hearts out. 

Zen Biker Facing Wind On Narrow Country Road

I don’t know 
What sounds more 
Swishing— 

The sound of bamboo 
Swishing or the sound 
Of a boy on his bicycle 

Swishing through. 

Daily Gazette

               the good news of the day 

Most mornings 
We rise ready

To wonder 

How wondrous 
The twilight will be. 

. 

               flip side of the coin 

Punch-drunk, we just roll 
Over, curl up and wonder 

What to make of the sinister
Squiggles crawling 

Up the wall. 

Ruse: One For The Poem That Got Away

What’s that you say?— 
What’s on the tip of my tongue? 

How’s about a piece of my mind, 
You miserable excuse for a muse. 

Love Unscathed Beyond A Reasonable Doubt

Clean 
As a whistle 
It seems this 

Double-edged knife in 
Question clearly 
Went in so 

Deep its blade came 
Out the other side whole, 
Hearty and dying for more. 

Flight in Dire Straits

Mon darkling 
Lecteur, bear with me if 
You will and draw out the first 
Word of this poem’s title, 
Making it two 
Syllables in 
Stead of one, 

Then sit back 
And imagine 
A lone pilot’s night run 
Full of light one 
Second away 
From heading 
Straight into the sun. 

Nepenthe, Et in Suburbia Ego

Your narcotic quiet settling 
Round the circle at the end 
Of the dead-end street— 

Even the white 
Lilies ringing it seem 
To have fallen fast

Asleep.



NB:  An Atmosphere You Can Trust

Knowing Your Rightful Place

Day after day, 
Those they call 
They say the world is 
One fucked up place, 
Dude and you, well 
You being part of that 
They, they say 
You have no right 
To say it isn’t—so just 
Stay where you are 
And fuck it. 

Summing Up

Mauve-blue 
Spires of cypresses

In twilight 
And the wanting 

Spirit aspiring more,
Evermore.

Eve of Imminent Extinction

Where over millenniums 
Myriads grew and grew
Only to shrink 
To two, now only one 
And before you 
Know it, no one 
To say goodbye to 
The setting sun, too. 

Romantic Poet Sick to Death of the Muse

Verily I have been lax with you 
Of late I know, but I swear 
Over the graves of my venerable 
Forebearers I will be lax no more— 

The next time I hear you 
Whistling in time to the lullaby 
Of bombs dropping softly 
Into laps of babes 

I shall drop everything, 
Drop straight to my knees 
And—dare I say it?— 
Pray you call no more. 

Skid Row Tenement House Rotgut

So rotten the rickety flight 
Of stairs you had to hold 
Your breath and nose all 

The way ending 
Up stinking drunk 
On the bum 

On the ground 
Floor landing up 
Side down. 

Downtown Sidewalk after Deluge

Scum all 
Washed away— 

Cement scrubbed so 
Clean urchins soak 

Up hopscotch 
On it night and day. 

Concupiscent Sirens

Oh most baffled 
Of bedeviled public 
Men, should you chance 
To come upon a ship 

Stranded miraculously 
On top of a mountain, think 
Out of the box, do not be 
Dumbfounded, do not founder 

In the maelstrom 
Of male stupidity, it’s clear 
As that insistent throbbing 
In your dimwitted heads— 

A woman’s lone pubic 
Hair has dragged it there! 

Food for Thought

Grit your teeth on this 
Piece of homily, ‘Murica— 
Just so 

You can squeal 
Your piggy little hearts out, 
Once we have the elections 

In the bag, you’ll be free 
To skedaddle out 
Of the poke unfettered 

And amble in 
To the nearest Salvation 
Army melting pot. 

2016 U.S. Presidential Candidates Enunciating the Question of Poverty in America

1. Hillary Clinton: 

“For once and for all 
For crying out loud, 

Tell me what 
You want?” 

2. Donald Trump: 

“For crying 
Out loud, tell me 

Once and for all 
What—YOU WANT?!” 

Blind Patriotism

In brief it is 
When you see what 
You don’t want 
To see—say bombs 
Bursting in air over 
The land of the free— 
And still you believe 
You’re seeing things. 

Narcissist on the Shores of Lake Placid

Smoothie, spill but

One drop of oil on
To the surface

And watch it
Disperse it

Self in the firmament. 





 

Sickle in Abeyance

Tilted to the right, 
The red-orange crescent 
Moon suspended just 
Above the twilit 
Western horizon seems 

(If one is so inclined) 

To be sending a signal 
For us to hurry and set 
Our house in order 
In order to fully reap 
Our rightful bounty 

And get out of tilt forever. 

Old Country Derelicts Gone Fishing: Raymond, Washington, ca 1950

On the stinking mud 
Flats of the Willapa, 

Old houseboats inhabited 
By leaky old men once 

Forever young. 

Discrete Aegean Sequence

More than enough

Here of what a sea 
Bird’s kept 

Folded be 
Neath 

Its wings. 

. 

                inland urchin 

Ringed by mountains 
Strange that 

I should have been thus 
So drawn to the sea 

I don’t remember 
Whatever became of me. 

. 

               inlet 

Salt sprays 

In the recesses 
The mind 

Tastes of brine. 

. 

               katabasis 

In a poem 
I once wrote 

Conches nest 

And thinking 
The sea, the sea 

Engulfed me. 

. 

                tail end of evening 

Of sails in the sunset 
Small white cries 

Of gulls sailing over 
The edge of the world 

Unfathomable. 

. 

               archipelago 

I shall pave 
The wide blue 

Sea with slates 
Of marble 

And keep on 
Striding 

Till I find you— 
Wait and see. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Minor Underground Poets

Oh, the ignominy of it all! 
To die as they lived, revolting 

And buried underneath rotting 
Sheaves of subversive verse. 

Moderator’s comment: As this is Cinquor’s first communiqué in almost a year, I trust he isn’t having second thoughts about continuing our five-year cooperative venture as set forth in this initial blog entry of October 11, 2010; worse yet, I’m worried to death he’s approaching terminal burn-out phase and will soon be beyond saving. Perish the thought! I don’t know what I’d do without his horseplay poetic and gadfly manner rearing their heads now and then and injecting some sorely needed life into this deadly lackluster blog. 

NB: I hope I’m wrong but why do I sense Huuk is describing himself here rather than some nameless poetic pencil-pushers pushing for world revolution through the medium of putrefying polemic verse?

Maven's Vigil

Keep a watch 
Out for the flickering 
Of the first evening 

Star and stare 
As if it were 
Your last. 

Coign of Vantage

This fragile young 
Unruly bitter lemon 
Tree weighed 

Down with more runaway 
Fruit than it can bear 
Needs a rod to spare it— 

Let him who is full 
Of plenty be the first 
To provide it. 

Pockmarked in the Process

Just passing through 
This corner of the universe, 
Stranger and couldn’t help 
Noticing round these parts that 
Your moon goes through 
Its phases like it was 
Some sort of zombie, 
And all that plus 

The look on your face tells 
Me more than likely 
You’ve been through something 
Similar and back, too—why 
Else should it be so 
Familiar and smacking 
Of moldy green 
Cheese, too? 

Berceuse Fantastique (Updated 30-8-2017)

Baby cries in white
House

                    Of jackals 
                    At twilight 

Soon night 
Shall set 

                    All things alt-right. 

Caesura of Summer

Our friend cicada? Halting 
Its cranking only 

Long enough to let us know 
Our attention span wasn’t up 

To cranking along 
Long enough 

To catch up, too. 

Crepuscular Crescent Moon over Hellas

appearing dark 
orange out of the blue 
so to speak and low 
on the horizon 
and hightailing it 

lickety-split be- 
hind a jagged 
bank of even 
darker blue 
mountains till 

all that’s left is 
a slivery tongue 
of blood red fire 
that’s done with 
licking its wounds. 

Sublurbia

Ah, to be 
A sylvan living in

Sylvania—that carefree 
Sapling spirit never to be

Crushed by the crunch 
Of SUVs driven mad 

By pedestrian poets reeling 
Off their sappy rubber-

Stamped verses crashing 
Into tree after tree after tree. 

Guarding the Gates of 'Murica's Hell

Keep a right dead level head, 
Look alive and stay put 
In your proper place, gentlemen— 

Nothing but a lynch mob 
All these years, you thought 
You’d keep me broken, barking 

Your heads off up the wrong tree. 

Heads in the Clouds

Watch out you 

Strange, down-to-earthlings— 
Stare at us long enough, 

You’ll start seeing things. 

Adieu to Fancy, My Little Pigeon

So long as the eagle- 
Eyed crow flies 
Straight to the bloody 
Heart of the matter, 
One thing is clear, 
Dear—that lovey-dovey 
Pair of ash-grey neophyte 
Doves preening on 
The edge 
Of that buckling, 
Pale red-tiled roof 
Of the derelict, 
Decaying house 
Across the street 
Cooing you-ah-you 
Won’t be preening 
There for long. 

Heralds

angelic                     lights

           approaching

from                       all directions

             darkness           soon

                              imploding

from one still

                     fluttering within.

It Just Dawned on Me

“. . .to hurl the hatchet so far into the depths of the earth that it shall never again be seen in the future."—Reuben Gold Thwaites, Jesuit Relations 

 “Truth has very few friends and those few are suicides.” 
—Antonio Porchia, Voices 


Wish you were here long 
Gone old friend, we could spend all 
Night arguing to no end 
Like we used to, 
And take in the sun- 
Rise if that’s what 
You wanted in the end— 

If not, 
We could bury 
The hatchet right here 
And now, agree to disagree, 
Say one last good night 
And leave it at that, 
All right? 

Citrus Grove in Moonlight

under odorous 
lemon trees 
bearing pendant 

globes of gibbous 
moons shining
overhead. 

Wanting Mainstream Spirit

Taking stock of it at the start 
Of one more “soul-searching” session, 
He discovered “rich” was not what 
He wanted it to be after all, 

But he did not want it 
To be poor either; 
He desired neither 
The one nor the other— 

Clearly muddled 
In the middle, his was a singular 
Commodity of two minds, 
Both mediocre. 

Surfeit of Naught

Replete with nothing 
But that which is 

Missing, ciphers 
Spend their entire lives 

Filling in the blanks.