Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

What is a picture ‘of’ something?

It wads the stuff of ages, the powder made ready.

Where explosions timeout, tincture and cuddle

armadas of sound, the little ones unsought.

To understand these frailties is to keep in mind

and cognite the realities verbosely, mine and yours.

For all a last call, a reminder, a gender.

This is how I know stillness requires an energy.

How when I see that ready and unpuzzled smile,

 its plagues a plight that play-act the light—

from off the brochure I lure a yearn, a reflect,

who wrought havocs, and encored our fettered sight.

And Plowed, plucked through, Concord-like

without a noun; none too pleased; a picture,

and thousands of them to spurn time’s churled delight.

 For Chekhov, who wielded a few good ones, and for Hemingway whose young matador was unpuzzled, and ready to begin.
Now, who’s feeling lucky?


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Acrimonious Cumulus
mounts a tumbling August Offense
against the Teetering Crumb-bum
table watchers.

Effluviums Millions
test Waited Marauders
eating Nothing But crumb —
tolled waters.

Least Silus
Banks Stylus
Pens Open
till wend.


A chap’s manes, twain-marking.

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Can the mind over-come itself?
Or so asks an old melting comb,
tooth and hair comfortably twined.

What goes into a good comb-over?
A flit of god, ego’s overlook,
far flung past the gone precipice.

Facts gleaned clear by an onset peace,
forced tact in a toupée of farce.
Man’s mind ponders a bald forest —

family of confounds, peers rused,
ignorance ignored in transit.
Consanguineous sinewity
combed over with stubborn porosity.



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There is a fire.

There is a fire outside my door, a reddened flame beside my sill.

Fit over top, deadened still, sit
distressed floorboards, tokenized form.

From my repose, a leadened, broke
figure, entrapped by soot and grime;
lies that round my fleshy threshold.

Heat wicking at nasal mantle
with burnt tendril, a puff of smoke
that snuck its way throughout a crack
in my door, to find its way home.

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Morning Edna

Accordion shrieks across their articulated beach.
Today he plays to bid poor Edna away.
Read lightly, his sigh bleats sky with wave’s bluster.
Washed tones met with scents of pinkish you.

Muffled forfeitures of past business stays
call out — Edna!  Won’t you think of your
disciples rife?  Your duties?  Your life brayed,
with squeezebox, on stage, to play?

Clouds of swirly coughed mist melt torrents,
shiver his muffler, striped with flower currents
whipped ’round without luster, grayed to dye.

Today Accordion speaks out-with merit morning
paper thought crinkling, set loose to sea on dry dock,
to wander about his missing Edna who
flits between the waves, skips under bottomless
scorns of ocean floor, de-pressing her sleeves.

Free Edna, alone and wondering for freedom
from Accordion — who with gentle squeeze wished no work
but to play, thought nothing of that Concertina,
who lived to learn and explore, forlorn.

She looks back at mental instrumate, torn
forward, fallen Accordion, sagging grim-shocked
hollow, belting dirges reeded, mourning Edna to swim on.


A special thanks to Kate Chopin and Lucy’s clouds of swirly coffee mist for this piece.

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Missing Influences

Doggerel seldom finds a home in dogma.  But on – we are assured – rare occasions the free market slips its seal and in floods calamitous drivel.

On laundry days like today, one gets to wash away some of the detritus, clean clear the pulp.  And canon is best formed when clean.


The aftermath of missed clothiers.

Laundry Days

The downside of up thoughts contain
a bit of rigor doing laundry figures.
In dirty powder traced thinkings
of frocks, I stick a finger’s landing,
and realize the reality of my room.

For laundry landings are no tomb.
I think last of clocks and back to what
fell between cloaks and bonnets past.
Punches and flicks, eyebrow ticks tocking.
A furrow sorrowed, tailored cuckold tales told.
Stepping boots in the muck.  All things smelled small.
Salted wine tasting sailors bristled among
mistletoe greased plates.  Machined wheels in perfect
forms rolling out like piping pies, and stories warred.

A history of fingers grinning, standing roared.
Tracing past steps sprung animate fast —
my laundry room door.  Possible pills and pull,
uphill tells, poker cards, ash fireplace shards.
All things telled drawl, banking stores now filled
this room with old reality.  A history of sinners
fingering my mind from afar clockwise.
And once burst forth from this mist of lies,
I turn riled and cry, “Where’s my socks?!”

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To Spell Skate

An astute speller tumbles

I thaut it ownlee fare to give a knod this mourning to thoze hoo feer thee addmonishmeant of grate spellers on the prowl, just iching to looke down there knozes at the poorlee spellt.

Boulderdash! Non-cents! Et set era.

To the contrary:

Miss Spells Skate

Spills a spell, oh spelling tells.
She’ll like to spel it straight.
Striktly struk, looks rong.  Right?
It’s a writ, our so sung sawng.
Rites passing to know more…moar.

Take skate, simplee spellt out.
Not scat or skat, but a skate.
Skate?  No, no, nevur moar sew.
I think it skeight, prefer to
rite it rawng.  Try scaite on for
size.  Stretched lawng sckaight looks it now.
Well wut if smalld sew short, scait?
Bee itt rite nough? Smells fishy
scait, scant tell if itt’s rite, sew
letz spel itt roling alawng
underfoot, sew az knot to
have Mai noze tern on Hue tooo!

A revised mix, slowed tricks for
Language bees, she sees in hand
Pictures skate plight, but no need
for flight, ‘rite’ or ‘rawng’ works right.
Just found, fair ground: Words as Sound.

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