Twelve-year-old drew this segment of our bedroom’s prairie-facing wall with incredible ease. I’ve got to get kid into an art class. And yes, I had to write something to mark the effort. Stain glass bowl By itself Sitting on The bookcase shelf Flanked by drapes Aegean blue Sheers white All watching you Draw them Shut


We study and learn Of ways we can earn A title and salary Letting us churn Out words in a manner Sophistic and dry: What thinkers discern Over crackers and chai

Pool of Suspicion

There is a pool in every head Of crystal clear suspicion It’s fish are poisonously bred And make for lousy fishin’

Hell’s Goods

Feels good Tastes good Smells good It’s possibly hell’s good


Not all naans are equal So know your naans before Your nonchalance returns you Embarrassed to the store

Humble Poet

Asking a poet to be humble Is an act supremely stupid In my humblish opinion For what tops in arrogance The idea that you let brain Sculpt the wretched pulp into words By the heat of spent synapses There is no humble poet Just pretenders: shy performers Ever wishing someone will Play out their craft for them Basking in the applause of their genius But if contrived verse with phrases Like “the heat of spent synapses” Keeps you from the snares of the forsaken Then you Must do Your thing Just be worth saving

Anger Like a Cloud

Anger like a cloud, dark and gray Descends upon a bright and clear day Let it blow over

K for Knowledge

Now knowledge begins with a kay I wonder if that is to say: “Be silent to know what you may”


All the things I think I get All the plans I think I laid All the folks I think I met All the hands I think I played Everything feels like a dream All suspended in the air I don’t hear it when I scream I don’t see it when I stare Then the I-ness of existence Hits me right between the eyes It’s the craziest inversion Of the sum of all my lies All alone with all my I’s