Quotidian

Of the innumerable 
Times you have 

Fallen prey 
To your own 

Indifference to the world 
Around you, you should 

Have noticed by now 
How it is 

These recurrent lapses 
Of your “better” 

Self reveal 
Their selves 

Through the manner 
In which they move 

Across your smug sleeping 
Visage come the first 

Light of day—though 
You can’t see it, you do 

Sense there’s something 
Out there trying 

To work it- 
Self out through you 

From under a skin so 
Thick it can’t 

Tell the difference 
Between night and day.


 

40-Love

Dear Mr. Frost: 

Looking back on what 
You once said 
About writing free 

Verse, I know it’s really far- 
Fetched but for the sake 
Of this poem let’s say you were 

Still alive—I bet you’d have 
A field day with this flighty 
Pesky little critter 

Of mine, more than likely 
Running it to the ground 
Like some frenzied color- 

Blind lepidopterist tra-la-la 
Traversing a pied meadow, 
Sporting a mean nonexistent net.

Heady Autumnal Aporia

At first sight not a leaf stirring— 
But hold on—what’s this light 
Headed grizzled one up to now 

Cropping the air with the greatest 
Of ease all the way down 
To an uncut graveyard plot? 

Foolproof Triphasic Lie Detector Test

1. 
To tell the truth, 
One of us is lying 
Through his teeth. 

2. 
I’ll find out who 
If it’s the last thing I do. 

3. 
Best keep away from me 
Or else you’ll lose 
Your dentures, too.

How Not To Lay An Egg

Pure poetry I tell you— 
How deftly 

Weasels slit the throats 
Of brooding sleeping hens— 

Never a need for needless 
Revision again.

Now On The Silver Screen, Pixamax Productions Proudly Presents "The Bigly Bang-up Sixties"!

Where

The meanest gang in town 
Was getting pretty itchy 
As they unhitched 

Those dazzling diamond- 
Studded belts, the newest 
Comer on the scene was made 

To hitch up 
That oh so come-on skirt 
Above her comely head, 

Above that heavenly body 
The stars 

Exploded one by one, 
Four studs literally 
Dropped dead— 

Mum’s the word, 
Everybody said. 

Refining Further The Fine Art of Artful Confession

Running away from what you know 
You must say, don’t you always 

Skip over that failing in a jiffy, 
Hoping it will forever go away, 

And then backtrack over what 
You didn’t say, thinking never 

To do it again, 
Come what may?