Too Much, Too Soon

You know you’ve been trying 
Too hard to find your voice 

When you find out too late 
You’ve lost it. 

Lovely Being

a word in a poem 
enclosed in a bottle 

opened by one 
you love. 

Closure For Beginners Up Against A Wall

The next time you feel 
A desire to execute 

The poem 

Of your life, make sure 
You wind it up with a blank 

Sheet of paper. 

Suddenly, Phlegm

What on Earth were you 
Expecting, poet? The expected almost 
Never comes when expected— 

If and when it does decide 
To make its entrance, 
More often than not

It acts as if it were 
An indifferent ephemeron 
Setting down miniscule droppings

On the tip of your dumbstricken tongue, 
While all you can do is expectorate, 
Expectorate profusely till kingdom come. 

Being An Irreverent, Albeit Clean Defence Of Nihilism

As long as the blank 
Page insists on

Staying immaculate 
White, what appears

Out of nothing 
In the end 

Must be predicated 
On how well

Our maker conceived 
The abject absurdness

Of his maculate plight.