So, here’s the catch, (to end before it starts):
The Sonneteer of Hamelin comes free,
like garbage in the wind, or titans’ hearts
chilled on the rocks, abiding what will be.
A man will love a girl, whether or not
a woman will pretend to love his gift,
and helter-skelter, iced or flaming hot,
he’ll take the float, then cut her line to drift.
This happens all the while, some mother’s fool,
who took to reading Freud, but never learned,
tugged on a rope, tugged back, so cranked the spool,
eyed up his “catch,” then cursed when he was spurned.
The worlds not mine to save, nor leave alone,
can sail the great abyss above alone.

I never dined and ditched, since I was “bright.”
I just smoked funny smelling cloves and “kale”
in public, with impunity spelled “white,”
“cis,” “hetero,” “well-heeled,” and–best part–“male.”
And I rejected privilege! It was wrong!
At seventeen, I bought my own damned car!
I parked it past the tracks, to hit the “gong.”
(It rhymes, I think. That apple don’t fall far.)
See, I knew I was marked to rule the class,
and I knew that tattoo was inked in blood.
Hand me my final! (Drunk, but bet I’ll pass.)
I dropped it, free, and, “After me, the flood.”
I am no longer three, or seventeen.
What grace I had was far beyond the mean.

The title speaks the volume, with a lilt,
and, somehow, that should salve your bleeding skull.
I’ll rake my muck, and dredge my ounce of silt,
and shit in public, so it isn’t dull.
The “Prez” will send his steamer by the post,
by horse and pony, male and hot to trot.
His ghost’s the most, the holy Lord of Hosts.
Some things are for us all, and others, not.
We don’t need photo evidence of guilt.
We don’t need acts of penance by the sword.
We do not care what time machine you’ve built
from false instructions from your seventh lord.
We do not need a poem from a man
who might, or could, or would, but never can.

I must appreciate someone who might,
by sight, or flight, or purely random chance,
receive, believe–who knows if they’ll requite–
a word of happenstance romance, at glance.
The word I hoped you’d ask for: “Here are we.”
It’s plain, despite the wreath upon the door.
One follows after one–buy two; pay three.
Ask for an epic. Then, I’ll hit the floor.
My gift might be impersonal, arose
from some reflexive instinct in the spine.
It is for you, and only Heaven knows
the words I write are never really mine.
I’ll call you “Zorp,” and you can call me, “Derth.”
It makes no sense, but here we are on Earth.

Mist, the next morning,

quenches my hot, black ashes.

I’d announced, “I quit.”

I catch my echo.

It cries above the tree frogs.

Again, it runs off.

It’s hard to hit the pupil of your eye
as visions thrust, and jerk, and reappear.
I’d steal a glance, askance, but who am I?
There’s how we look, then how we disappear.
I’m blown and busted on the war of tugs.
What good’s a pair? Why don’t you trade them in?
A six pack for a patent pair of “ughs”?
I placed my ad in verse, and signed it “Fin.”
My steely arsenal is on parade,
its edge, acute admission to my rage,
the kegs discharged, the bloody mess I’ve made,
precision pricks of light to pierce the page,
my total war, below and from above,
missiles of meaning, Molotovs of love.

To the Cat God:

There comes a point, when art is false excuse.
I don’t think this is trite, but who am I?
There’s medicine, and then there’s drug abuse.
You quit me, but I couldn’t hear “Goodbye.”
I’m not that frightened rabbit, hollow-eyed,
who asked if he could hold your hand, and you
are not that little waif who bravely cried,
in “trouble,” prick my thumbs and start anew.
Ten years, and a degree less wee deranged,
I don’t believe our beating hearts have changed.
Our “souls” were never in or out estranged.
My love was neither chance nor prearranged.
Your shadow gave no reason or excuse.
Each in our turn, we ducked and slipped the noose.

Love,
Your “ex-”

Before I could present a Christian gift
in small return for how you took us in,
you sat me at the head. Then, settings shift.
Your cooking starts before our yens begin.
A Christmas tree too great around to hug;
a star way up there higher than the clouds;
a hearth to snuggle little bugs in rugs;
your love’s a silent solstice prayer aloud.
The bunnies hop and wag their cotton tails,
(some cross the bridge,) to see you, every year.
The ease of love–the work the ease entails…!
You plant the seeds; the flowers all appear.
…Another Christmas, just in time for spring.
Please have my love; it’s all I had to bring.

I know one thing about you. It’s enough.

You have a heart to just accept this word.

Sometimes it’s soft; the better parts are rough.

It’s less the voice, and more the way it’s heard.

“Shall I compare thee” to an April night?

The cruelest month, a rose shot through with fire?

Untwist the words, and bend them back aright:

In temperance, obscure, recall desire.

I don’t know if you wanna take this trip,

or drop a second blotter micro-dose.

The parts you can’t identify, you flip.

Did you hear, “Guten Tag,” or “Adios”?

I said it as it sounded in your ear:

“You’re beautiful,” but is my meaning clear?​