WRINKLES

For better—or 

for 

so much 

much much worse—you might 

feel flushed

rushed or rumpled;

gnawed

by your hunger

or infuriated 

by thirst—

or just tired and crumpled-

up

looking—out here 

in the high-

contrast light of 

the clean 

honest noonday 

sun—but only 

so much 

to the chagrin—of the only 

set of lenses

on the premises 

that's capable—not to

mention

sophisticated

enough—

to actually notice!

you honestly 

might

just look—

like 

you're smiling. 

SERIOUS PROBLEM WITH POETRY

Bereft of all—by now

but my 

own small

and dark 

motivated 

stabs at thought

I confess; I've become abusive 

again

of words—

beautiful 

stupid

lugubrious words—

 

the way 

they let loose

and sluice 

down to fill

in easy—each 

of the plenty of gaps 

left—in the space 

where I live 

and used

to laugh 

more often.

THE PASSIVE VOICE—

Of a clichéd loop-

di-looping shopping bag

Nevertheless keeps on

chiding me—see skinny?

the only way to

go free

is truly—

to let yourself get

as completely 

filled-up—

as possible!

D.S. AL CODA

In truth—or all

likelihood at least

the very last

time you do

something—doesn't feel very

much at all 

like 

the first;

but it does tend

to resemble—almost 

exactly! the next-

to-most

recent—which only 

makes it all-

too-easy

to presciently understand 

the vague 

blush that keeps welling-

up

as you muddle

through the task:

having come 

at last

in glory—to judge

the living and 

the dead—

just feels kind

of awkward—if not 

downright 

counterproductive!

to the whole scheme 

of a kingdom that has 

no end—

DEPTHLESS

Belting Paul 
Simon tunes 

with Lucy and
you—Kate

it's a swell 
little feeling—

I admit;
to move out 

of myself
for a bit—and to

just dwell 
in us.

GRATUITOUS

By July
even the baked
wasteland

of cracked highway
median strips—is busting
with thick

and scraggly 
whitepurple weedy flowers—
not arranged

for display
but just—stacked deep
and cheaply

and out of
the way—it's as though
even the rough

and glorious old
stock of wild wilderness
has run out

of space in which
to call itself 
a place! and has as of late

started creeping
into this—weird new field
called logistics.

GO FUCK YOURSELF—

If you're 
one of those 
little fat

and glazed-
over 
empty vessels 

sitting around my kitchen
cabinets—rattling 
in this thunderstorm 

all hopeful with your 
mouth wide 
open and supposing—

that it's
what's—inside 
that really 

matters—like it's
content
that counts! 

When 
really— 
nothing

speaks greater volumes—I mean 
nothing
holds more water

than what a thing
is called.