Feb 15 2019 Published by under Uncategorized

If my affections leave a bitter taste
after my rhyme for reason comes across
a wire, to trip, to slip a noose in haste,
to love unloved much longer is no loss.

Our reason’s raison d’être is not our own.
Impersonal, we think, “Whatever works,”
to give a fuck, `fore all that’s aft is bone.
Then, if it sticks, at least we share some quirks.

We rarely speak a single word of sense.
I’ve touched the wound, as sure as I am damned.
The feet are sparse; the crown atop is dense.
Re-read your eulogy, before you’re scammed.

The parts we will recall, and miss the most,
are less for God, and more like morning toast.

No responses yet

No Flowers On Sunday

Aug 05 2018 Published by under Poetry

The Mass has come upon me by surprise.
To God, again? We had one, just last week.
The Highest walks among us in disguise
on sale from an invisible boutique.
“No flowers sold on Sunday.” I have missed
appointments never made, so never kept.
Although the ringing’s stopped, my ears persist
to hear all of Creation’s call, except.
A flower in a pot commits no sin;
restraint absolves the captive of her cage.
We go without, and hide away within,
and concentrate remembrance as we age.
The willow weeps until its sorrows cease;
a rose arose; a lily grew for peace.

No responses yet

One Too Many

May 23 2017 Published by under Poetry

I counted to a hundred, just to stop,
and then wrote one unnecessary word.
I sent a metered pun, to have it flop
upon a hundred ears that hadn’t heard,
that didn’t know the back end from the front,
who thought a sonnet had to come with rings,
and thought that Cyrano should bear the brunt
of words betrothed to forth-and-backward kings.
I’m sorry, but I’m running out of rhymes.
This never worked, and now it’s time to quit.
I gave the form my head a hundred times;
I have to either swallow, now, or spit.
You caught me on the day I dumped the sonnet.
To be or not, not one bee missed her bonnet.

No responses yet


May 13 2017 Published by under Poetry

Not turning in the out within, without
a flying bird, and then a branch for peace,
there’s doubt of self, and then there’s doubt of doubt,
then Socrates’ fart trumpets under Greece.
I’m not the better man; neither was He.
He would not raise himself above your nose.
He’d feel his size, about the same as thee,
and spindle in his nepotistic hose.
Perhaps he wouldn’t drink, or smoke, or swear,
the oversight from here to Heaven’s gate—
not unaware—so painfully aware
“Big Daddy” would enslave his name to hate.
It is not for one’s name, nor one man’s sake,
a Buddhist burns, and lights us in his wake.

No responses yet

Empty Ether

May 12 2017 Published by under Poetry

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.

No responses yet

Two Going on Forty

May 11 2017 Published by under Poetry

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.

No responses yet

Self-Portrait (Revised)

May 11 2017 Published by under Poetry

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.

No responses yet

Here Are We

May 10 2017 Published by under Poetry

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.

No responses yet

The War for Your Attention

Apr 18 2017 Published by under Poetry

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.

No responses yet


Apr 17 2017 Published by under Poetry

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.

Your “ex-”

No responses yet

Next »