the skrawl of a troll

i find this edgy. the optimum
investment in word, maturing in division
and excitement, crimson and red.
a weathered sportsman knows
the time damp moss is flirtatious,
desperation fragrant.

this is the time of Ulysses
his run on the waters.
fish,
living fish
worthy of the line,
fight him this hour. fish
strutting struggle, those
a danger to the net

Shelly

She said she enjoyed my poetry, exuberance, my zeal.
Sensing her instability, I agreed. It's just a hobby, I confessed
and what a surprise to the canister is the flare.

You see, this is what I expect from you, this!
and those who swim in your water.
There has been effort to rearrange words
before they become imperceptible from rain.

There you go again, again! You see,
this sparkles skies, umbrellas
attract harmonious drops.

You couldn't have requested a better corner, I exclaimed.

She did turn,
she did walk away, although
awaited some kind of goodbye.

Parakeets

plump candy canes run aerial reconnaissance inside my sunroom.
the plan has been in effect since their unceremonious arrival.
every cranny; lodged, tugged, discussed, and then,
patient outpost.

through glass, the objective is plain.
codes are passed in dash-like tongue
until uncommon silence and they look on.

congregating at its base, the pair measure
and nip the fish tank. these civilians
will require relocation.

don't let them fool you, through the fluff,
the pagentry, they've made their home;
they defend. still, syllables

are muttered, words
overheard; "these colors don't run!"
while heaven is in such plain view
and so very near.

whistle

this spring, trees dressed
like startled adulterers

winter certainly tucked itself
in the bottom drawer
with a slam -

a brave face in green,
just as if nothing happened

thursday

morning swears it'll be different
a silver pen is found, a woman
with a cell phone passes

a spectacular restaurant
closes for renovations, my phone
call buzzes the owner's home

the food court sign says indian
white men eat there for sorrow
between 11am and 2

employees self-start,
yes but the slack is often
is hauled by contractors

an eight year old fakes sickness
vomit seals the deal
"why do men have a penis"

he asks
and no one knows

diva

she enters,
stagedoor left.
scarf, a fashion

like side swept hair.
the hum of monitors,
the banter of the band

her friends
are magnets
that pull her in.

invisible,
mysterious,
tonight is proof positive.

the storm
of applause gushes
like five thousand thunders.

warm smiles
meet her, she tests
the mic. electricity

will wrap her voice
tonight.

poems

riding my bike home
from work today,
i thought of three
or four poems

i forgot them all
when i sat down
in front of this
big lightbulb
with the whirring
box and the rickety typrwriter.

tenderhooks

when the doctor said "boy, your heart's
as strong as a mule's" i straightened up,
joked with the attendent about treadmills
and hockey, the ECG felt an intrusion
instead of tenderhooks. blood began
to replace the mustard in my veins,
my chest began talking back
like nineteen year olds in a convertable
and i said "i guess that WAS a chipmonk
inside my rib cage trying to get out"

critique

your music is sound in the distance, masonry pings, accents left by roman gods. i feel wind, mists of anticipation, lavish fog obscuring a rumble, sentences piece - a train appears, readers are left mesmerized; hearts in hands. anticipations of impact, deathly blows, but remain in the hope of a glimpse of the driver

routine

ambivalent
when i awoke from a nap
still alive

i looked for reason
the rest of the day.
my son's smile. on the rug

playing games, green trees
over brown leaves. routine
replaces normalcy.

a blawg

is a voice, everyone can hear
but no one hears
because everyone speaks

this universe is not to be explored.
a gawd set it aside for inlaws
and private functions,

the vacuum will swallow,
SETI will shoot blanks
between zombi eyes

a single degree of a sailor's compass
sends my voice toward a shoreless land.
drunken sailors stumble,

the Vatican beast will whiff
a keyword or two, lettered
agencies will light red,

in the aftermath, CNN will say
"he was a disturbed man, a lonely
man with paranoid tendencies",

animated screams will release
my circulatory system of cancer
and best of all, it's free, so no one will hear