most fortunate
randomness chooses people to win, to lose and some to simply not know if they have won or lost and the most fortunate among the random the chosen winners and losers are gifted by the chaos with true indifference I don’t enjoy reading the celebrated greats of poetry tho I ...
unsold
my book of poems was due a month ago, maybe two in truth, it’s already written in honesty, it always has been I just haven’t sent the damned thing in they’ll package it up, build some hype they’ll print, market, and sell my tripe to loose-jowl, bespectacled bookstore types people ...
limits of dare
This disregarded fan spins madly above my head, wobbling in space, looking as though it might fall from its heavens in exhaustion at any moment, yet it never does. Instead, it perseveres, dutifully spinning on it wobbling voyage to nowhere, without questioning why, or if, it should continue. It just ...
bludgeoned and bloodied
there are still bodies buried, beyond the leafy periphery topics on which I haven’t written dark and hideous wart-skinned things bludgeoned and bloodied, but undead and I daren’t disturb the moist soil under which they restlessly writhe because on the fool’s day that I do so all the poems will ...
angels’ sanctuary
Will you remember me when all the false lovers have gone, when the warm wind chases across the desert of a soul, searching, loosed from the embrace which’d held it once tight to the bosom, will you remember my name, love, will you whisper it softly, to the angels, wherever ...
winter-noon solitude
it isn’t pride my love-- this prison assembled of winter-noon solitude(s) is simply blood-knuckle stone each rock, round and firm ‘neath an arched hand’s callous-skin caress the dimming voices at the perimeter growing fainter as evanescent as a dream ...
ungraced
“I’m not afraid of dying,” Charles said, “After a while, things take on a repeat.” he was correct, in that-- every poem written has already been written by another by a greater, or lesser, or indifferent poet tho likely ungraced, by recognition tho likely unread we perish of our anonymity ...
sky’s wide azure
black plumes spiral over fire’s hunger mocking the haste with which a home can burn dark-soot clouds-- smothered and gasping hovering over ancient ire’s conflagration then dissipating never reaching heaven’s promised emancipation the lingering-gray mimim filling the days black, are our lungs lovers, sycophants, arsonists deep and greedy, our inhaled ...
mist of mountains
if only we could start over without our mummified history clawing ‘neath the soil’s moist rough if only the night could forgive the day for leaving it cold and lonely if only the mist of mountains touching heaven’s breast weren’t so far away we could, dear girl we might ...
haughty, hopeful, or ambitious
in an average day an average woman will speak 20,000 words an average man, 7,000 words the balance, kept drowned, while still kicking in an average poem and they are all average an average poet might pen 100 words or maybe 300 hundred on a haughty, hopeful, or ambitious day ...