Category: sonnet
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This Ain’t the Movies
he and nick and I were having whiskeysdown at an eastend dive last saturday nightwhen phil came in with a gun pointing itand actin all gansta on nick and himand jawin’ about his wife and pictureson the internet, and nick and him start(I was way back in my seat by then soas to leave a…
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Our Lady of Needless Tears
she weeps night after night into cupped handsbecause she never learned how to pray, hersadness and misery have an authorwhose name she refuses to think or speakswearing “I’ve moved on” or “I’m in a new,a different, chapter of my life now.” Thismorning she swore to her well-meaning sistershe would start mass next week, but she’s…
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Fly
mountains, the placid water, sluggish atriver’s bend, the fly placed just right, quick flickof the wrist and timing is everything,the trout strike in the dying day . . . I watchedthe old man tie this lure, enchanted byhis fervor and curious how a twistof thread and wire becomes siren to theseriver dwellers. He’s gone now,…
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Satori Zhatahz
got this livin-in-the-now thing goingon now, he says, though the haunt in his eyesbelies the now; somewhere on the road tosatori we met at a bright crossroadsof seeking, which is really something forparallel paths. we sat to center andfollow our breath — he his way, and me mine. my breath moving outward, I trail behindto…
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Breakdown
you’ve lost all hope of reason, she says. her hypodermic is that for which I came. what the fuck ever happened to refuges, to the sanitaria of yesteryear? I need a peaceful stroll upon a lawn unwired and without the green threat of work, the soft voice of a sympathetic soul. my dreams are meaningless…
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Poems are Like This
he was something special “back in the day”;she still writes sonnets of/to him, though he’s deadto her these three years; one has to wonderif it’s dedication, obsession, orperhaps merely her addiction aspoetess; in the end – does it reallymatter if the poem is to or foror about anyone in particular? some say one way, some…
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The Poetess
younger, she wrote of transcendence beyondthe body, of ecstasies grander thanwhat the flesh can offer; she wrote ofexperiences so wholly spiritualnothing might compare. such were her metaphorsmany considered sublime . . . with age and lifeexperience, her poetry turned moretoward the body, the thrill of nerves touched byhands of her true love; later, the bodilylonging…
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For All Our Erudition
she and me and a bottle of red wine,questions of cosmic significance tossingback and forth in a hotel room afterthe symposium, philosophies ofstruggle and economics, of art andpsychology, of class and caste—we tossedaround expressions like disenfranchisedand plebeian and bourgeoisie; concepts:opportunity and entitlement,under-privileged and . . . and in the end,it was all words to open…
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Night After Night
night after night in the twilight of dreamsyou stand beside a brightness blindingits jeweled hues string my heart intobright realms and I wonder at the truthof love glowing from your presence likepromises of succor and rescue from deepdepths of evil times when the world seemsfull of dark enemies and hateful, mercilessfoes who trample thoughtless what…
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All Bosched Up
QUATORZAIN 41 In the garden of freshly pierced hearts,I’m doing time with a shadow of you,thorn quivers in your hand crimson blood-stained;and I stare hollow-eyed all bright withsoft admiration and honeyed words beggingyou to forgive my tenderness in lightof your crystal ice delicate touch. Youpirouette in time to music I’m deaf to,and I misstep cloven-hoofed…
Fringemonkey Scribbles 