Tuesday, February 23, 2016

Retro Appeal


They say I have retro appeal; closer inspection reveals the error:
a tornado becomes a mouse via transcendental dentistry.

It flew from the fight into the plot of a life in miniature. They say
that's not the worst of it, that I've never scratched myself

where it mattered, nor found a bargain in a star field.
I'm not one to argue semantics, as thankless weather

puts us in our place, the classroom where we sleep
through a groping for grace that will never be ours but is

a welcome product rollout under the aegis of a cosmic wail
too remote, too haplessly devoid of mirth to take seriously.

Just pop the top and enjoy! Does this nostalgic pandemic
age with us or against us, our story unceremoniously

dumped out like light across an empty stage? At all events
your smile debunks most transportation options;

I sense an old bromide coming on, spinning true.
So there's that, at least, and a lot of lovely bitterness besides.

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Beer Barrel Polka


It all starts in the womb. From there it proceeds to the deli.
Never forget what life teaches you: that tombs and nipples
are different manifestations of the same ornery glory,
according to some old law—scrape it off the books
and it just grows back more holy.
                                                            But first a killing
has got to be made, after which the seas
sleep soundly, underfunded. Now quiet down.
The game’s on in the other room, mutely playing us.

See, though, that’s just it: nothing lasts forever,
said the cough drop. The movie version was better,
but the state bird must be appeased, and so on.
Take me, for example. I’m like a fighter pilot:
I like to make doodles of girls on napkins,
stationery—whatever’s lying around inertly.
That’s when security bursts in, brandishing
a zeitgeist of its own impeccable design.

Yet if I had one wish, it would be to deconstruct the day
when “wish” became a four-letter word.
Then I might be famous, or at least famous for trying.
In fact, let's ditch the last dance for a victory nap.
I mean pap. I mean the sky’s the credit limit.

Sunday, February 7, 2016

Loose Ends


Got an idea for a new product? Run it by
your local rodent. Countless abattoirs would
kill to get a load of your street credentials.
And maybe some juicy e-mails.

So be plastered beneath an agreeable algorithm—
less debonair tactics have yielded
devil-may-care results, but not enough of them.

Yes, the days do look less real when
they're sitting on a plate before you.
Their static patrols the stoic plain
as dandruff excuses multiply
despite attempts to secure the boudoir.

Guess I'm just holding a mug of lucky.
It's no wonder punctuation's
a major thoroughfare; no amount of
fictive screaming releases one from duty
in love's blood-spattered library.

Account Summary


By some estimates, the cost of a single apple has risen
to walk among the living. They say it's a nice job
if you cannot forget to brush daily.

Excuse me as a minute passes, then see
where that leaves the trees in winter:
naked as deaf ears. Their soft collapse comes

as commuters in cars can only guess, but the ablest
officers look like all the fiercest weather events
went out for tennis tryouts. I haven't

suffocated very convincingly in a
sudden ardor lately, i.e., the moon landing
was not a hoax, but the moon may be.

Thus concludes any up-to-date horoscope
over there in the ancient meadow, being victorious
like a little bitch (a literal small dog).