Bukowski and the Three Flies

From his father’s crap he falls into the bar and plops his basket down on a stool and asks for a tall Falstaff. Three flies fasten to him, ogling the brew. One runs her fingers through his thick brew and pules until he falls into her arms and she pulls him off his stout cask…

Lady Gaga Sitting Cross-legged on Her Gomden

Largess the monstress Lady Gaga sunscalds her saga Lady who? Lady Gaga, aka radio caca from Saginaw hitchhiked qua-qua down to Lollapalooza maga a funny thing happening on the way to pay paga and on her gomden she sings her hagiography Her saintly lady hagiography with still a lot more to saga heorte abut America…

Heart’s Apron Sestina

Oozing down the sinuous sleeve the heart’s blood tempts the jackdaws to table to dine each bird a caddy for another’s purse whose ears exceed hearing and have eyes to eat who renounce not their heart’s guards but pronounce things with ease and clarity if left to their own corrections sop with erasure the heart’s…

Waltzing with a Loon to the Tune of a Whippoorwill

Henry’s loon waltzed into the room laughing laughing laughing at the phony moon rising over the pond-like screen laughing at Henry, at me, and at you too who scorned the whippoorwilled who loon-waltzed our way across the fall season who tweeted twitted twisted and tallyhoed on but what stilled the waters the antithesis of laughter…

The Twitterers (after Walter De La Mare’s “The Listeners”)

The Twitterers (after Walter De La Mare’s “The Listeners“) “Is there anybody following?” twitted the Twitterer, Twitting on the backlit laptop; And his cat in the silence watched the empty light of the screen Of the laptop’s infinite face. And an ad popped up out of a modal window, About the Twitterer’s eyes: He twitted…

Sestina’s Angel

Sestina falls prey to the sound silence of the Angel sitting in her lap playing with a ball of wireless a wireless webbed feline bureaucracy where pleas receive no reply and the sole sound is a silent catty wind and long days pass with nothing said of the terrible Rilke ranted something about beauty being…

Sestina’s Radio

My left speaker falsifies me, crackles, hisses, clichéd toad. I turn my right speaker to you. Surf wax fills the air, wave tubes squeezed tight. An unreal bird sings, pierces my ear with a ring, and to my radio welds me, night’s station holding tight, while in the surf singing toads fill the ringing air…