Memo From One Of The Wolves On Wall Street

Share and share alike? 
Never did buy 
That piece 
Of pap—why 

Should we 
Portion out half 
Of what we have 
To some ungrateful 

Misfits clearly unfit 
To reap half 
Of our precious hard- 
Bought misanthropy? 

Better we let the wretches 
Dawdle in their misery. 

Poem Fraught With Symbolism

I bet someone could write 
A poem worthy 

Of Baudelaire’s best 
About these two 

Doves suddenly 
Lifting them- 

Selves up from 
The gashes 

Of plowed land where 
They were 

Foraging for food, 
Now darting lovey- 

Dovey from branch to branch 
Of shimmering silver- 

Green olives with 
Nary a hawk in sight, 

But I wouldn’t 
Stake my life on it. 

How To Make A Killing In Commodities

Tut-tut, not to worry— 
In brief, the bulk 

Of the argument being 
You have to haul your own 

Weight all the way over 
To the right side 

Of the tracks or else 
Some pell-mell runaway 

Freight train makes double 
Sure your burden is disposed of 

Properly, so as to fit 
Such a moving occasion. 

Ill-Conceived With The Speed Of Sleight

Thinking you can fashion 

A living out of writing 
Poetry’s tantamount 
To believing 

There are hobbyhorses that fly. 

Immaculate Minimalist Body Poetic

my dear fly- 
weight mates, stay 

clear of midges 
that swarm round 

you in your spot 
less white and do 

nothing but maculate. 

Ruminations On Pulling The Wool Over One's Eyes

In this dazzling midday heat, 
It’s comforting to think how 
Contented the innocent 
Lambs must be, gathered 
With no care in the world
Under the protective canopy 
Of the blessèd olive tree, 
Suckling their mothers’ teats 
As if their lives depended 
On it, and indeed how 
Easy it is to be sucked in 
By that old rustic wives’ tale— 
A bit harder to digest how 
Gamboling they are 
Soon to be led off 
By city-bred wolves 
In always appropriate 
Cutting-edge abattoir attire. 

Definitely Not Lemmings: A Benediction

No, no, not these 
Poor misguided 
Driven ones that 
Dive headlong in 
Droves over 
The nearest head- 
Land, dear God, let me

Please in my next life be 
Anything, anything 
Save those consumed by that 
Sweet, deadly urge to self- 
Destruct without never 
Ever knowing why, 
Amen.

The Dawning Darkening

The village elders were fond 
Of telling us the waxing 
Sickle slowly lowering it- 
Self in the western sky 
Would be full before 
We knew it and empty 
Itself just as fast— 

An eternity passed before 
We knew it. 

Smug Wannabe Psychic

Insisted you could always tell 
What we were about to say 
By the look on our faces— 
How we chuckled back then 
But then again how 
Were any of us to know? 

As it so happens, second- 
Guessing the future’s a lot 
Like digging your grave 
Specially now when 
Everybody round you turns out 
Dead right grim in the end. 

Fantastic Freshly Plowed Centenarian Olive Grove

Amidst the frenzied clamorous 
Backdrop of cicadas readying 
To draw the curtain and call it 
Still another night, the dumb 
Eye strains before finally 
Falling upon fold after fold 
Of newly-wrought furrows 

Under the wrinkled arching 
Brows of row after row 
Of stately silent grotesques— 
My arrogant fellow bit players, 
If you please, please observe how 
Once more the stage is being set 
For yet another humbling 

Twilight. 

Great Expectations Till Hell Freezes Over

In the searing July heat 
Hot enough to broil 
A souvlaki on asphalt,

This seventy-year-old man 
Has just crossed the street 
To a neighbor’s where he

Picks up a goodly-sized 
Leafy branch from a freshly
Pruned lemon tree, tenderly 

Brings it back and then 
Proceeds to dig a hole 
In his garden, plants 

The amputated 
Limb, waters it profusely 
And waits for it to take root, 

Come hell or high water. 

Heads Up, Or What's That You Say?

I said Poet, 

If you’re finding it hard 
To hear the sounds 

Of silence, you’re 
More than likely 

Talking your ears off. 

Welcome Mat

This dreary derelict mud 
Brick hovel in which squat

A Roma family 
With six kids all

Under twelve also 
Sports a brood 

Of scrawny kittens 
Numbering about 

A dozen taking in 
Today’s brilliant 

Sunshine in front 
Of a hanging 

Pied blanket 
Serving as 

Its front door. 

Immaculate Cycladic Morning

From round, blue-green 
Plastic tub next to her

Frail frame, white-spattered 
Black-robed widow wielding

Long-handled red brush 
Attacks greying house

Walls with wide swaths 
Of blinding fresh whitewash—

Soon everything will smell 
Of clean wedding night sheets. 

Turning Point

You know she’s right 
And you’re dead wrong 

When she sees red and 
You’re already past 

The last green light, 
Long past gone. 

 

Gloam

Slowly pedaling past black ornamental 
Cast ironwork railing round small candle-

Lit cemetery cramped by too many large marble 
Tombstones crested with white crosses where 

No matter what you’re thinking, 
The mind always reaches 

A blank there. 

Are You With Us Or Against Us?

“You” being the “we” we always thought 
We were until someone came along 

And told us otherwise and then 
We became “them” with a whole 

New perspective concerning who 
We were and who they were 

And gave up trying to answer 
Their question right then and there. 

Littoral Expanse

Literally on edge, 
The complacent self-

Same image now 
No longer

Grounded, breaks in- 
To an un- 

Broken recitative 
Of waves leaving 

Nothing to chance. 

Has-been Apprentice Hack

NON-DISCLAIMER: This is a work of poetry; as such, it is the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is definitely not coincidental in any way, shape, or form. On the contrary, it is clearly intended to enlighten the reader as to the character of the splashy, hubris-filled blowhard now playing hack actor playing at playing the role of the most powerful man in the world—a part soon to be assumed and straightaway transmogrified into a bit player’s nightmare by a most desperately driven, artful director called Nemesis.  

Used to be 
You could tell how

Hot you were from how 
Much fake precipitation dripped

From your forehead 
As you manipulated your way

Up Broadway to no end—what 
A farce, my no longer cool friend!

No more easily anticipated 
Big splash round the bend, 

Only just too much 
No sweat vaporized

In the sweltering end.

Huuklyeand Cinquor On Postmodern Poetry's Distressing Emphasis On Omphaloskepsis

"The question of the nature of navel fluff seems to concern more people than one would think at first glance.”  – Dr. Georg Steinhauser, chemist 

Reflecting 
One way or another 
On the idea that 
Idiot in its ancient 
Greek sense did not 
Mirror what it means today, 

But rather someone so 
Caught up in his self- 
Importance that he is 
Useless to society really 
Makes one kind of wonder, 
Does it not? 

Moderator’s comments: Huuk, I suppose it does but if so, shouldn’t that questioning spirit supply us with real answers rather than ending in a vapid query that does nothing but prolong the agonizing naval-gazing status quo that characterizes a great deal of contemporary poetry, yours included? 

Know Thyself, Dude

Like the man said 
Before he drank his last 
Bitter draught toasting 
Man’s stupidity, 
One thing only I know, 
And that is that 
I know nothing. 
. 

Say you do not know, 
You know. 
. 

Say you know, 
You do not know. 
. 

You know? 
. 

If not, you must be 
Some kind of stupid.

In a Rut, or Business as Usual in the Land of Timeworn Phrases

Here 

In the civilized 
West, whenever we hear

Of some poor soul beaten 
To death by a crowd

Of angry barbarians 
In some god-

Forsaken corner 
Of the globe,

We change channels. 

Lazarus

Emma, should you 
Miraculously emulate 
Your celebrated namesake 

By appearing before 
Your lady-in-waiting 
Once more, keep in mind 

Her lamp is tarnished 
And the door now 
Shutting, golden no more. 

Dystopian Ways and Means

Oh yes 
Indeed, we aim 
To please the tired, 
The teeming destitute 
Derelict masses washed up 
Like so much flotsam 
On our shores, 
By keeping our eyes 
Always on target, 
Even if it means losing 
What we set out for. 

Working-Class Stool Pigeon

on the bum, 
strutting under 

neath chicks 
on stools out 

side up 
scale coffee 

house gleaning tit
bits of hot 

info from un 
suspecting cool 

cheesecake crumbs. 

Not In The Script

In this dark grave 
Comedy of errors, 
If you wish 
To begin
Once upon a time,
Best not to 

Plan on ending it 
Happily ever after,
Right on cue 
And always oh
So tellingly 
Nondescript. 

Grease Monkey Gigolo Riff

Maestro? 
That’s me— 

Screw driving 
Down right 

Up tight low 
Down staccato funky 

Monkey wrenching Mr. 
Ostinato Lubricanto— 

At yer soivice, ma’am. 

Trumped: Tower Block Asylum Gravity

In the high-rise, 
Everything was in 
Great, scintillating order— 

Including any semblance 
Of order which had gone 
Right through the ceiling 

When every able body 
On the premises 
Found itself going up 

And down 
In circles, unable 
To do anything but 

Pace the abysmal,
Bottomless pit 
Of the ground 

Floor. 

Exemplary Poetic Specimen

Go ahead, 
Stare at the blank 
Page all you want— 

Nothing needs all 
The help it can get, 
And you’re no exception.

Best Laid Plans

When the rudimentary yet 
Humungous suicide 
Bomb went off 

And everything and everyone went 
To pieces with it, there was nobody to ask 
What became of the intricate 

Nuts and bolts designed to hold 
The whole shebang together. 

You Don't Say!

Listen up, young fella— 
People who say 
They like to tell it 

Like it is most likely never 
Tell you what it is 
They like to tell; 

The few times they do though, 
More than likely they 
End up short on the telling 

End of another tall tale. 

Air of Yearning

The pine’s whispering 
Something all but inaudible 

Under its breath 
The wind pines

To hear it, too. 

Shape Up Or Ship Out, You Swine

Tut-tut now, we know they say 
All the world’s a stage but 
Then again, it’s not 
Your oyster, mate— 

Though it could be 
If you were but a god- 
Damn watchdog standing 
Sentinel at the pearly gates. 

Timeworn Life Sentence

In the morning it’s easy 
Getting caught up 

In the hope it won’t be 
One more wasted day, 

Only to spend the rest 
Of your life wondering 

How that too got away. 

Unsettling Unearthly Affair

where sudden suspect 

gust in trees 
leaves 

                    minding 
                    nobody’s business 

still up in air.