Category: poet
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art to optimism
ughf! dyspeptic morning and the whole dayyet to go. oh, but I took a vow ofoptimism: how am I to face thisin brightness, this overcast novembermorning with my belly aching and headfilled with allergy cobwebs, eyes itchywatering and thus painting the world drabwater color . . . and now, suddenly, I turnmy mind to matisse…
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Filler
this is a filler sonnet. it has littlelife its own, is meant to wedge in betweenpoems in a collection — for you, dearreader, because at this point you’re inun-dated with poetry and likely notpaying close attention, and not everyverse can be a work of genius, evenfrom a writer of great talent or skill. it’s not…
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Correspondent Love
break me out, she said. I will love you, sheswore. her letters always brief and to the point.halfway to indy from here, barrelingdown i-74 east, my first tireblew out, shreds of tire across the highwaylike feathers from a murdered crow. changingthe flat took an hour because my car trunkis full of books and . .…
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After a Classic Poem
thoughts contained in nothing run out, waterleaking from a cracked urn, and where is keatsto chronicle its ode? but, no, it isnot graced with fauns nor bacchants dancing nude;indeed it is but a whitewashed vesselof no particular pedigree, banaland lonesome for its homeliness, commonenough to be found at any flea marketor the roadside shop of…
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Occult
mystery is a thing of feathers, flies awayon bat-wings, crawls into the earth through suspiciousburrowed holes, swims alongside sharks and within podsof dolphins, sings with angels’ voices, screeching onthe strings of demon fiddles and beats with drummingpercussion through the blood of all sentients. mysterythe lifeblood of knowledge and breath of wisdom, inhaledbrings curiosity to awaken…
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Down on Fifth
forever the beggar, king of no kingdombut the dusty lanes of nowhere, he smilesfor his dimes, a blessing for a dollar;at midday, or when whim strikes him, oronce the coins add up to a little something,he slips down to the huck’s on carpenterstreet for a magnum of malt (and a pintof brandy, E-n-J, on a…
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Nighthag
she’s followed me home every day this month,lurking in shadows, just out of sight. firstI laughed at my own conceit, my own sadparanoia. but then a friend asked meabout my shadow, so I watched closer,more surreptitious, and there she was, coyas moonlight and insidious as night.last night, I heard her panting outside mywindow, her heavy…
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Antemeridian Monday
eyes too fatigued from letter and allergeneven to dream, bloodshot and weeping airwhere no tears will form for sloth and ailment,even the brain is hazed, dazed, sluggish toform, frame, interpret image . . . here the worldmelts away into pools of abstraction,not only meaning but the compulsiontoward meaning slips away, absents, escapes. here, in the…
Fringemonkey Scribbles 