h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s





At the shop of good moral character
you bought five grams of valor and
a strong chin

For your love, essence of steadfast heart
in a vial

Good gosh, that's pricey stuff

You speculated over glasses
Horn of Africa-rimmed so you could
spot a swarthy pirate, yo-ho

For your love you thought, Titanium frames!

You passed on the steady gaze for its claim on
There's only so much
good moral character a person can stand
in a day

You and your love pledged to
utilize purchases
soon as you were home and
would have but for a stop
for wines and tidbits,
brandy and later a few tokes
from that joint
in the car ashtray

your love left her steadfast heart
in the Audi whilst the cat ate
your strong chin (at least you
brought your purchase into the house)

You and your love split the valor
Everything's better with two forks and whipped cream


You are the first line of this poem. 
You are an opening gambit,
perplexity, a variable concept of relativity
space and time
in which this poem (you) exists.
This poem exists to be you. You, the woman I write for.
You're a man?
That's a wig? You are a man in a wig and, yes!
you are here! in this poem.
You are a conundrum and sparkling wine,
a Gewurztraminer or
cider with bubbles and no booze.

They say art enlightens.
Between you and me?
It might as well be a sleep mask.
Light rents space for its morning stretch.
This poem asked me to let out its seams.
You are the first and second lines of the final stanza and
you know why?
I'm hungry.
I'll always treasure our moments together.
Reader, if you were a seam, I'd take you out anywhere.

............... ON THE WAY TO THE GALLERY

Never allow Greeks near your conjuring.
The cult of primordial Nyx,
aboriginal goddess of chiffon,
foremother to tricked and tricking
Hera Aphrodite Athena—that crew
—hissed at my augur of
feline elemental mists
geographies of soul and taffeta.
On the way to the gallery I conjured
(cut grass the levitating sun)

(a tangerine id peeled for juice and pulp
by a woman's ten pads and rubbed
by her heavy books of life). I conjured
satin a personal trainer faint morning stars.
Goddesses wreak easy havoc with enchantment,
a garment flattering to only a few.

Copyright © 2011 Literary Pool, Inc.