Wicked, I know, but who could resist?
Oh, this must be a poem,
from the lick-backed wobble
of word-induced glimmer,
from the near-likely brood
of dimple-starred crows,
these broad gallops of
weedy wings.
Like the grand chausee
or the midge-grained wire alike.
Oh, this must be a poem,
sits like a wimple
across my greedy brow;
yet the still carcass
– a mantis dream –
occurs relentless into the
sun-darkened corner.
Oh, this must be a poem.
In homage to Dorothy Parker on her birthday:
Such edge as I had
When I was a lad
Was all dissipated
As my waistline inflated
Rage. Bullets fly, blood,
Precious blood, flows unstinted.
Twelve people lie dead,
Bereft of all but meaning,
And the bells of Notre Dame peal fiercely,
Clouds part and the gates of heaven
Swing ponderously open.
“Sweet Jesus,” says St. Peter, eyes rolling, “here they come!”
This poem was inspired by a cartoon by Tommy Dessine.
After reading the October 2013 issue of Poetry.
What vanity is this? Asks the enfant terrible
His latest work selling in the triple digits
I’m not so different from the butcher’s boy
Bloody apron askew, half-smile on his face
Or the preacher’s grace in desperate ascension
The ladder fixed firmly on the gutter’s curb
So hard to tell the weeping from the laughter
At such an angle; let’s call it even
Mr. Joyce, in his second coming, inventifacted words a-flail
Would smile at such sanity, clean as a whistler’s boy
Sheep or swine, it’s all alike; I see it now for no reason
Not so much the parting of the fog as the clarity of it
Curse the winter if you like; it won’t leave
The Stars by which we swear such oaths
But fizzle in the end of all creation
A-twitch with whimsical eternity
A haiku this ain’t
Even though the syllables
Tumble properly
exiles child 