The Pedestrian Spirit That Moves Us

When the last light 

Of the fire left 

In your eyes goes 

Out the window 

Of your domicile 

Like the proverbial 

Bird in flight, do not dawdle 

 

There in that earthbound 

Hearth of darkness, telling yourself 

You did all you could 

To avoid the worst when 

Deep down you know you were 

At best just one more docile, 

Accommodating guest— 

 

For Christ’s sake, 

You made your own bed, 

Didn’t you? Now, 

Go sleep in it. 

 

 

 

 

Unquenchable One

There are many

Reasons one chooses to write 

 

Poems, though in my book, 

The only one that holds much 

 

Water is the one that’s writ 

On the bottom of a bucket 

 

With a hole in it. 

 

 

 

Midst Mad Midsummer Air

most 

in 

 

dis 

creet 

 

ber 

serk 

 

ci 

ca 

 

das 

jack 

 

hammering 

the 

 

stifling 

heat 

 

in/to 

 

in 

dis 

 

crete 

 

                        p. 

 

                                    i.     

 

      e. 

 

                             c. 

 

                                          e. 

 

                          s. 

 

of 

re 

 

in 

forced 

 

con/\/\/\/\crete.

 

Before We Were So Rudely Interrupted

Turn this 

Page or any other 

Like it to find 

Exactly what 

 

You’ve been 

Missing all these 

Many years; failing 

That, stay just 

 

Where you are— 

Someone just 

As lost as you will 

Turn up any minute— 

 

Now, where 

Were we? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Crying Out Loud, Poets, No More Killer Clichés

Holy Moses, pilgrims— 

Can’t you see 

 

No matter how 

Hard we try, 

 

There’s always one more just 

Around the bend, hiding 

 

In the bullrushes, burning 

To cry out 

 

Bloody murder 

In the name 

 

Of all those fellow travelers 

Soon to be 

 

Most foully dispatched.