Monthly Archives: June 2013

this makeshift experiment towards immortality we call poetry

carry my dreams onward
for me, forever forward
of this time and place
to conquer the landscape
of the mind eternal
with words never quiet
or restful but bristling
with bellicose intentions
a marching army of
serif-footed fire ants
setting aflame the
encroaching dark, forgetful
nighttime of our mortal woes
for this is the poet’s special favor
sanctioned as divine comedy
to alone survive
that final utterance
those less damned
are earsilenced by.

Surviving the Generation Gap

this is the cry
of the parent waiting
for the parent
in absentia
to come home
and soothe the hurt
even when there is none
no mother or father left
to come home to
whatever place
that might
now be
without them.

nuncle, mine uncle sam

what naturally must follow
when the self-appointed fool
who now refuses to juggle
how and why anymore
forgoes the politic
electing instead to speak of treason
(or strictly the facts, ma’am)
under another name
and reports the rotten states
of denver/massachusetts/arkansas
remarking how the highest
office in the once-brave land
houses cigar-toting low-lifes
and father-son ventriloquist acts or
worst yet peace-illiterate laureates
for herein is a warning
beware the ides of time
when sheer anarchy shall
overrun the republic
as democracy in full motley
should take to the streets
in a laughable fashion
seeking the reinstatement
of life, liberty and happiness.

A Postcard from Pompeii

Men, children, dogs and lovers
encased in ash, mothers with
babes in arms (Vesuvian clay
pottery figures) caught in an
instant of pre-nuclear panic
a necropolis devoid of sound
but for the echo of a thousand
thundercracks bearing down
the mountain to the bay of Naples
raining sulfurous fire like
there would be no tomorrow
the gods of Pompeii—a mongrel
mix of Egyptian, Roman, Etruscan and
Greek—brought the sea to a boil
before unleashing hell on earth
deaf to the cries of the faithful
lying dying in the streets
a postcard to inform our own atom-
splitting days.

A Conceit Owing Much to I Who is Someone Else

In the name of thrice
blesséd unholy Rimbaud
who famously took
extended leave of absence
from his own once-organized
senses I too’ve spent
my fair share of seasons in hell
although to tell of it, I’m sure
would read better in
the bewitching cadences
of his native tongue
une saison en enfer
sounding softly deferential
in lieu of a more agony-bred
title for the verses of
one fatally accursed
the switch from absinthe
to opium addict accounting for much
of his later heightened suffering
although offering little
more than poetic license
to explain my own fall
from grace/loss of nerve
and subsequent search to
re-find/refine it these
fifteen years past caring
he the master alchemist
(impossibly at twenty-one)
me his apprentice, learning
to consume these poisons
contained within and the
love of the quintessence
of words, this being the horrible work
without boundaries, without sleep, without blessings
without hope of salvation, the clouded moon glimpsed
at midnight a fortress stormed by will
alone and the ramparts of
reason left in ruins
so as to croak these bejeweled
laments as lonely as a crow.


for without her i am nothing

listening for the
of the muse
a soft, jealous
task of inquiry
after finer threads
of meaning
with which to
craft a fresh
wonder of words

On Second Thoughts

First thoughts, like thoroughbreds
Oftentimes race to untoward conclusions
Unabetted by serious cogitation
By putting trophy logic
Above all other considerations
Whereas contrariwise
Second thoughts prosper
Free of the greed for speed
And meander less-frequented
Flightpaths to glory
Like fancy-footed fillies
Too young for the restrictive
Harness of serious racing.