Remembering Errol Flanders of West Marble Court

Foxes for pillows at the head of his bed and knock-knock joke eul’gies now that he’s dead. He died as he lived–face down in his soup or crying alone in a telephone-booth. Sometimes he’d smile at cars passing by while walking the freeway’s concrete divide. I had him over last Tuesday for lunch. He ventriloquized […]

Drive-Thru Ballad

While driving through McDonald’s for the nineteenth time that week alone, he paused and stared at their menu sign. Little flecks of red and gold upon a field of white littered with black curving shapes, tiny strips of night. The world upon its axis slowed and time refused flower as the patron held those shapes […]

Typical Friday at High Noon

Typical Friday at High Noon Like an Easy-Bake Oven from hell, the sun stiffens mud and a lone worm screeches in his mother tongue as he’s slowly Han Soloed in the carbonite of home. That eagle over there isn’t all that eager to pry him out. In the distance, Vin Diesel high fives Poseidon. Buoys […]

Haiku–22 February 2018

above rain puddles, the red of stoplights shimmer– Winter, stay your leave.

The Loogork: A Nonsense Limerick

There once was a loogork named Darg who nightly camped out in my yard. I offered him fish and fresh pretzel sticks which he took as a trade for his log.

The Seventeen

The Seventeen like laughter-clatter, ArmaLite refuse echoes up the hall. A shrill metal bird has been paid to sing arson and lure us to fire. Riddled, we watch as others prod, fiddle with our holes, feel for the thin veil of prayer the dosh demands be woven –ever retroactively–into our skin. Let their fingers burn. […]

A Snowman Scene

Sick of tradition, Frosty tosses his corn cob pipe into the fire. As he does, a bit of his arm gets over-warm and sloughs off as slush on the bearskin rug. “Typical,” Frosty mutters. He shuffles back a few feet. He would sweat nervously if he could afford it, but the Californian winter, ever short […]

Game ____ Match

Sunset sets conceptually. Daydeath dawns. Decay writ large, writ regular, routine withering in the way we end the day. Stop connoting soft death under constructed beauty: lithe ghosts that float over fields of miribilis jalapa, four o’clock flowers that flex out sweet sweat and hold the night in thrall. Make it explicit: we blink, dark […]

Haiku 12/7/17

Housemate’s hairs stick, plague shower floors–winter’s rain, my refuge from the filth.

364-58

364-58 The sky has called in sick. The clouds (grey) hesitate. Watch: they float, crawl, dawdle. Nearly as many NOs as DAYs.