Category: poetry


When you can’t live up to your license plate

and your taco’s the color of burnt sponge,

your subscription to Beard Man’s expired,

and stray women in Kansas unfriend you

the empty Cheeto bag holds no response,

the deflated roadside doughnut gapes in vain,

no two red vagrants lean at the same stance

and small mammals expose drab rearward views,

the state is not the low road that you know

but another with less yellow and more stone

exposing legless fish to winter sun

and flattening viable cops to crumbs.

And then    it was ten-fifty-seven

When her man stumbled through the door

Repeating the paper towel, recasting the ashtrays and counting all the daughters.

“Is it for the lack of a moon that you followed me

where the parked cars… Wait, is that the latest issue of American Male?”

 

But it was her lost moon,

the toothpaste on the cabinet and the

discount beer that splayed around.

 

He wasn’t the only prone guy she’d found,

Only the latest.  With a shirt to match his intelligence

And that old rabbit trick that no one enjoyed.

 

“Don’t brush that mustache.”  She threw her bottle on the floor.

“I like them Western.”

My Bad Poetry #23

In the country of the blind men, no one-eyed dogs are kings

except dogs that follow the men who are no longer blind

in the country where bled men wander among the mongrels

no longer in the land where the bland man controls the curs

dug into the lead of the men who handled the course where

the men-eyed dawns of the blonde man underlined the dark blur

of the kind man behind the floor where the grim hand curved or

a bold man kindled a flour time hoard with minstrel’s sore

and more staid men with no sense fell into the cold wet moor.

 

She devised an electronic cereal

that detected her lack of excitement

but the alternatives suggested were damp.

Somewhere beyond her fictional redwoods

stood the monumental Kleenex box,

decorative live mice nodding, adorning its corners.

They would pretend to chew her until

the moon, with its poor sense of timing,

approved the impregnable shapes

oscillating just beyond the glassine limit.

Then the desiccated milk, deprived of speech,

made a detuned rasp of false languor.

 

I planned a documentary about your regrets

but the interview subjects besieged me

until I found a culvert with an apathetic dog.

Glum five hour talks left me Scotch-thirsty.

The brass spittoons were irrelevant and

the fictional sheriffs bothered me less

than the obtuse pantaloons.

Somewhere a forensic submarine

made an expedition into a foreign malcontent’s

residue of Francophilia.

It was just like watching a cardboard crepe

sink into the empty tub, analyzing your

claustrophobic row of decisions.

Like Mummies…

Like mummies engulfed in jello

They were cranberry-drenched

The black raisin eyes squinting

At a spidery destiny.

They made the intermittent, slip-filled march

into the forest of gauzy brambles

on a miniature mission, but no less harmful for that.

Desiccated bees and abandoned abdomens lay strewn along their path.

Lanterns the size of dwarf pennies did little to assist them

Giving each other distrustful stares,

they tramped above ever soggier leaves,

into a horizon of sarcophagus gray.

The Smoking Cat

The smoking cat

took a puff

and considered many things.

from villanelles to Roman wells and broken mattress springs.

The smoking cat

refilled his pipe

and walked to Coffee Town

to have a macchiato with two shots, made upside down.

The barista frowned

and told the cat

“That pipe is bad for you”.

So the cat discarded it and bought tobacco made to chew.

Toy Haiku

The raft of beige toys

Drifted on gray Lake Ennui

Dry trout slept below.

The burger prowled across gray plains of segmented cockroaches

Dripping globules of grease, its mutant mouth poised in a reindeer-sized gape

A heedless genetically modified patty, burnt bacon bit eyes crispy with vengeful drive

Leaving behind a trial of meat slime on the blasted earth

Giving voice to an onion-scented raspy growl

It had guzzled small crippled poodles, toasted dachshunds,

A singed, brittle sponge that had at first appeared to be a shrunken burnt squirrel

Still its appetite vaunted, a burger demanding to conquer,

Tearing away from its bun-bound past with one dull gnash after another

One in a mutant landscape of ravenous mad meat.

My Bad Poetry #19

‘and the mermaid said, why bother?’

 

April is the coolest month, making

Swim trunks out of old jean shorts, mixing

Tanqueray and lager, stirring

Stray dogs with spry brains.

YouTube kept us dazed, covering

ears in formica rhymes, slipping

A tiny boy in tired viewers.

Seymour surveyed us, driving over the wet interstate

With a powder of beans; we stood on the fish-drenched wharf,

And went on in green mist, into the new Starbucks,

And drank macchiatos, and passed out.