WINE INTO VINEGAR

Recountable only 
precisely 
because it's so endless-

ly inscrutable—
the real myth 

of Orpheus
is first-off—

that he simply 
could have done 
anything otherwise;

that sacrifice—a mere 
ghost for those 

sweetest damn
bitter notes of almost—was ever anything 

less than 
his ideal 
and most- 

gilded of artifices!

And second—
that he didn't 
end up coming completely 

apart afterward—rendered
for the rest 
of his scrawny 

hollow output of days—
deaf-silent, completely
starving, and just going

around—desperately 
trying to taste things;

his disposition—piss-sour,
his calloused harp-

fingers—now
covered in mustard.

FIELD OF SOME DREAMS

Even the now-
lush 
and widespread wind-ticklish 

tufts of true spring 
green grass 
and daffy gold dandelions—

cannot un-depress! 
the old oak trees—off
on the outfield 

perimeter—still sagging
bald and completely
unimpressed

with such 
late-inning springtime heroics 

as that fallow slack 
grandstand—of distracted-
looking telephone poles.

WEST OF WESTERN

The sketchiest 
of old Chicagoland 

neighborhoods—slanted and

dismal strips
of colorless
bricks repeating—nonetheless 

once 
and again—repeatedly

punctured-
up 
by such 

fierce and occasional
streetcorner rivals—vying

for most shocking-
ly beautiful 

flowering magnolia.

FREE SHIPPING

The littlest wood-
colored 
finch's alighting—there

before me this morning
on the 
blue asphalt path—

perhaps may have seemed
at the time 
like—the cheapest

or at least 
the most-
capricious of gifts 

the world-at-large
could possibly 
have sent me.

But let me 
tell you something—afterward

it sure feels 
luxurious 

to keep
and 
to keep
and to 
keep on receiving

the gift 
of that image—not to mention

pretty
exceedingly 

expensive
to render—with any sort of great
sense 
of its bigness

later
on blank paper.

POINTILLIST POEM

This—spotty spring tree

that I just drew

quickly for you—though brand new 

to the world 

stands unearthly 

tall—

and probably

a little awkward-

ly out 

in the foreground;

and despite its fuzzy green

and brown 

crown of slapdash

limbs left half-empty—or perhaps!

precisely because of

that pretty

immature mentality—the poor dappled thing probably

thinks 

it looks—totally realistic.

A TEMPO

Finally stepping 

out from under-

neath my crowded

mind—I'm quickly halted 

by the immediate 

cardinal—undulating 

swiftly through the lower-

down branches—

who only stops 

to think to flap his

two wings—every 

once in a while!

SHAKY CAM

Rain or shine or 
harsh or mild
or spring or 

sometime otherwise—either way

appears perfect-
ly fine 

to looming companies
of dark 
birds colonizing 

thoughtlessly above-
ground 
power lines—strung 

along in whatever 
noon or gloaming

gloomy suburban
landscape is showing—that 

our poet's noble 

spirit first rose
then chose 
to unmake—only 

now can't seem 
to quite rake-
up—the scattered circuitous

contents of 
his flaky mind in.