Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Your art dies with you
Toss it out like an anchor
It is but a claw

Saturday, February 11, 2017

Snowed

Considering the falling snow
I watch which way the flakes may go
Before my eyes I do declare
A pattern forms out of thin air!
And then I blink, and though I strain
The chaos has returned again
Is this probability?
Or my mind just playing tricks on me?

Friday, January 20, 2017

The Interview

Everybody does things right but me

Tomatoes bright and bawdy shine
Through plush foliage 'long the vine
While at my feet prick yellowed sticks
That birth green maggots dry as bricks
In company with stunted cukes
ugly, bitter, resolute
"No worries, we have TONS to share!"

Everyone knows just what to wear

Rumpled jacket frayed and teared
At the interview I'm made aware
thick patches strewn with feline hairs
Stringy, weak as I compare
her springtime fashion a timely match
Mine so autumn and decades past
Neat bundles bound in solid holders
Mine unwound and toppling over
Accessorized in coffee stains

Everyone knows just what to say

Kiss and hug without dismay
Well handled jokes hardly crack
Words that break like an attack
Spill from my lips like molten clay and
Chase these titans well away
I should pretend to be a mute

Everyone knows just what to do

Plan vacations, renovations
Buying houses landscaped yards
While I'm still baflled by sending cards and making beds
and opening lids
They're buying stock and raising kids

To what curse do I owe this legacy?
Everyone does things right but me.

Flow

Alive not summarized
towering charts
constructed of hearts
Dead not deconstructed
meandering lines
composed of minds and
Decomposed life mean
during time and after
the uncharted tower
deposed all the hours
of summer
the flowers
alive
not summarized















Thursday, December 29, 2016

Christmas 2016


The lies I tell are convenient lies
The drive too long
The screen too present
I don't know where I belong
But if I could unwind the lies
the drive, the screen
I would find nature's nut
patient sustenance stuck
in between
the uteri
and the lies, the drive, the screen.









Sunday, December 4, 2016

Poor Trait

I saw a picture of a painting on the library wall
I remember when you made it, I was very small
And I remember berating
The time it was taking
For a picture of a painting

But this place meant a lot to you
And I'm just passing through