American Horror Story

In the end 
We have no choice but 
To examine the horrific 

Possibility of what is 
Actually out there was 
Virtually everywhere 

Inside us. 

Anthem: America Out On A Limb

Do not be crestfallen, 
A mere leaf trembling 
In a mean wind; 

You were made 
For higher things 
Stirring underground, 

Compose yourself 
For what is about 
To begin. 

Symplegades: Bottom Line on the 2016 US Presidential Election

For want of a fanciful dove, 
The plumb bob snapped just 

As the ship of fools was caught 
Between two black clashing rocks

And in truth now lies
Broken at the bottom. 


 

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