The cost
of a box of pens
and a stack of
blank paper
is minimal
compared to the
immense joy and
satisfaction of
having created
images and language
that can benefit
the world.
Category: Poetry
XLVIII
The spindly arms of the
glazed bean-eating warble-wearer
flap wildly in the wind,
floppy appendages
good for expressing emotions
in lieu of of articulating
intellectual positions.
Trembling in the breeze,
those arms can indicate excitement,
disappointment, hunger
and even bewilderment in a pinch.
XLVII
The bindle on your shoulder
contains all the implements
necessary to start a new life:
a razor, an old newspaper,
a tin of peanuts, a crumpled greeting card,
six or seven packing peanuts,
a fork, knife and napkin.
You can pick up anchor and float
to any destination you so choose,
soliciting the help of kind souls
along the way, never wavering
from your pilgrimage to nowhere special.
XLVI
This little pint-sized skillet
takes the cake when it comes to
political treachery, lest you all
forget what happened on the night
of the great cupcake bake-off
last November. An implement
for destruction rather than
ingredient infusion, the greasy pan
struck a blow to our nation’s temple
and declared itself ideal, a tool
for the youth to look to as a reflection
of intolerance in the name of prosperity
and entitlement, teaching the lesson that
if you’re born with means, you can make
a goddamn mess out of everything you do
and still be considered successful.
XLV
Dare we complete the traditional maze
and try to emerge unscathed?
Hazards prove great, deter us for days–
a hindrance if you haven’t bathed.
A sphinx will appear and offer a rhyme
believing to confound us all,
we’ll look like we sucked on the sourest lime,
but our answer will make the beast fall.
It takes all of our courage to climb up
to the god of unreasonable fate,
and if we can just get to that old gilded cup,
we can probably found our own state.
Luxurious fame will belong to our names,
beloved wherever we go.
We’ll sing national anthems at baseball games
and watch our great legacy grow.
XLIV
Uncouth youths
named Ruth,
in truth,
don houndstooth
to soothe
tollbooths.
XLIII
I rescued a cat from a low-hanging branch while its master drank peppermint tea on the stoop, watching me the whole time with a blank expression. I received no thank you, not even a nod or a wink. The cat bolted into the house–quickly followed by the peculiar and stoic person–as I used grand sarcastic hand gestures to describe my disingenuous joy at reuniting the two companions. The blinds moved a smidge just a few seconds after the door slammed shut, and I continued waving my mitts, now in a flailing fashion and in no way courteous anymore.
WHARVED 