i am my mother’s compliments
the heat of her clapping hands
compassion on an infinite vacation
Poetry
Poetry
Poetry Is Not Written In Stone
The book of Lord Schist
was on the short list
with his rock-solid verse
that shouldn’ t be missed.
His writing is terse
and it comes with a twist
he gives all those who curse
a slab on the wrist.
Poetry
Convenience Store
The woman on the cardboard is fading.
Her elven hair has caught dust. A thousand squirrels run from underneath her.
The year is almost over. On the shelves: nylon socks. Now I am present here.
My groin is stationary at this orange table.
The machines are roaring. The microwave.
Coffee. The blinds. The cold air.
Freshener gets sprayed here with some frequency.
Poetry
Oh the wonder of subjectivity!
Parasite subdivide erudite
blundering souls with no rewards
the stillness of aging!
halflove
The rocky hills and mountains, like teeth outside of me
the hum of household machines
and me, still there, faithful to the secret
of being the present person who sat
there and felt that
Poetry
Portrait with a little pain
The constant buzzer of pain
that ugly fleeting empire
sending out its cavalry
to agitate my nerve tissue, to sabotage
every sound, every smell, every taste
and make me want to be replaced
but fail.
Poetry
The tiny sheepdog was very experienced, but the flock panicked and he died in the wool.
Poetry
The Making of a Misanthrope
They don’t believe me, and they split
One they goes on and on repeating it
The other they says, spitefully, cope!
I despise them, and become a misanthrope
Poetry
Mightless words ! Vehicles of nothing
flapping their wings (in pain), clacking their beaks,
barking to a dying possum,
Poetry
Far away
The cattle is furrier
The mountains are sharper
The birds cry louder
The houses are homelier
And the women
Poetry
Tapas
I told her over tapas
That I have two papas
between olives and anschovis
Oh, well, c’est la vie
Poetry
