Category: Poetry

Stream 9

Flanking the misogynistic brooch is an insecure medallion,
gaudy, cumbersome, more valuable than it’s worth.

Do I hear an opening bid?
I most certainly don’t.

Well people, I don’t much blame you. These things are hideous.
But in all seriousness, let’s give it the old college try.
Save the Volcanoes can really use your generous donations.
Honestly, you can buy this set and toss it in the trash for all I care.
Come on, all I need is one bid.

Oh I see, anyone who would commit funds to these atrocities is worried
that they’re doomed to never live it down in their social circles.

You’re all buffoons.
I’ll just buy them for five bucks so we can get on with the auction.
Sold to the man with common sense for five bucks.

Stream 8

Half a heifer to the man who can provide the whereabouts of the golden sombrero.
Not talking?
Okay then, a quarter heifer to the man who can muster the courage to admit his pigheadedness.
Not confessing?
Okay then, an eighth of a heifer to the man who can swim to the bottom of this lake and retrieve the gumball machine I carelessly tossed in a bout of sugar rage.
Not swimming?
Okay then, a sixteenth of a heifer to the man who can stand on one leg for more than five minutes without breathing.
Not balancing?
Okay then, a thirty-second of a heifer to the man who can shave his armpit hair and refuse to scratch the area until it’s fully grown again.
Not daring?
Okay then, a sixty-fourth of a heifer to the man who can tell me where the closest diner might be.
Not helping?
Okay then, I’ll keep the heifer and you all can go to hell.

Not going?

Stream 7

Grammar means no stammers or howling uncle slippers,
unless you count the wreckage burnt by eager melodies.

Even so, the palatable few cease whacking at the weeds
long enough to marvel at what happened to free orthodontia.

Gnaw forever on that single thought and you’ll lose recognition
as the first bold scoundrel cheap enough to glimmer at the sun.

Groom sparse cabin cloth inside a robin’s egg.

Stream 6

Before the rain diminishes and leaves a puddle here,
I’d like to let it swirl around, become a memory
of hamster balls and chimney sweeps, beholden to their work
atop the food chain, hesitating, bitter and obscure.

Something told me you were here;
I doubt it nevermore.

A thicker wheeze ensconces me before I blow my nose
and rectify my nasal flow to where it used to be
at bedtime.
I sneezed then.

Something told me snot was green;
I doubt it nevermore.

Stream 5

Tethered pistons yelling grief and gilded tattered fungus chips
to the
elementary linkage, smartly aligned and chopped through the useless night.
These are the loftier goals of our people, healthy and vigorous ones,
and yet,
the tumbling hasn’t left our eyelids, if we’re lucky we’ll catch a cold.
Outwards and progressing, starboard forward and sandpipers running
to the
softer climes, where skinny legs won’t be lapped with briny foam.
Timid clicks, the endless game without objective never loses its thrill
for the
loveliest, simplest, most fragile spirits, visiting us just for the sunset.

Stream 4

A tapioca polar bear approached me Easter morn
and told me I had leverage within this golden arch.

I took the time to recognize that polar bears can’t talk,
but this one shrugged and passed me by, aware that I would trail.

So he and I approached a cave, uncommon in that place.
He bade me: “sit and light a fire, your thumbs are magical”.

I laughed and got some kindling out, but lit the tinder first.
He went into a hiding place and found his finest catch.

We ate like kings; I let him have the lion’s share of fish.
“My stomach’s smaller than my hands, and not as magical.”

Stream 3

Torque takes time, tell that to Tina.
Before bringing bacon, burn blank bridges.
Cold castles curdle cream; cats crawl, claw.
Hunger holds heavy hearts– hounds hear hedgehogs.
Pontificating purists poke, pester, pound.
Wrestle wriggling wrappers; wrench wrens.
Steel slides smell spindly– solid spun?