MY UNCLEVER POETRY OR JUST DON’T GIVE ME THE LOOK
Begging apology my submission
Knocks clumsily at your door
Rat-a-tat interrogatives follow
I offer this droll rejoinder
In lyrical form
To the sponge of cerebral linguists
Flashes of suffering
Weary listening
Follow with patience
And excruciating tolerance
To unartful and greedy word-roaches
Scampering in chaos
Through darkening vibrato pages
Just after the propaganda of emoticons
And creases of exclamation
I get the nodding looks
The horrific and pitiable glances
Dreams of flaming purgatory
The burning and flashing teeth
Glisten and await
At the expiration and tether
Of my articulations
The poem got the look
A cuddly dependent puppy
Whimpering embarrassing public howls
Would not conform
And they left the poop
For all to see or step in
I got the look as my poem
Receives whiffs of farce
Louie Normale assessed
By the Maraschino Elite
My weak retort a sneaking toot
To the tedious elite
Somewhere an ethereal florist
A splendor broker
Will populate my latest indulgence
Housebroken by now
In virtuosity ornamental and complete
With illusory whims uncommon in plebeians
My shit will be so good
It will be incomprehensible
Advancing the mission of art
NOT DANCING IN THE ASHES OF DREAMS
Unable to dance
They slosh
Trudge in the ashes of dreams
The pace inexorably withdraws
Backwards
Cruel voyeurs
Examine deteriorating
Expectation’s limp and gasp
Clutching the golden years
And the LPN asked
What was it this time?
They stretch desperately
Reach for recollection
Embrace the retrospect
And see the bygone dances
We told them that
If it were ever thus
And they had noticed
What was present
Where had they been?
They continue adrift
Through the cognitive fog
Cuddling the images
When they emerge
And vanish in the clouds
When they disappear
Ponder the frustration
Of everyone
Outside their dance
As there is no pleasure
Caressing the dead
TURNING THE CHANNEL FROM YOUR LOVELY POSE TO THE HATE PICNIC
The fatigue of my body
Sighs through my eyes
I am the zealous recidivist
Guilty of every offense
Semi-lucid and bungling
Told that I am born to do this.
I scrutinize the tenderness
Of your coconut hair
The grit on its shell
And the sour unknown milk
Hidden inside
I am consigned to the
Shortened bus of masculinity
I ride in rainy muted silence
Drops on the window fall and roll
As wet curtains
Weaving through my vision
The riddle of your company
Pursues me
Through your public definitions
I am the sad parade
Forced to proceed before you
Trudging your penance
Not unlike the tedium of menstruation
You are hammered
To the cross of men
Through me
You are deluged with delight
In the sympathy and compassion
Of your sex
While you take the time
To pose for the birdie
And thank all the little people
Who have made our coupling
An audience for your chosen life choice
I scrutinize your performance
Through laugh tracks and screams
We have a winner!
We have a winner!
And you turn with benevolent sweetness
In your puppy voice
And preset smile
So coy and delightful
And proclaim that the husband character
Reminds you of me and you
Laugh and laugh and laugh
Dumpster Fire Press 