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Friday, October 6, 2017

Perfect Murder

She’d only had a name
a number of weeks;
an unlucky number,
some would later say.

It’d been a difficult birth,
but she’d made it home,
in a Volkswagen Bug;
vintage.

Home to a nursery,
right out of Baby magazine.
And Mommy and Daddy
fed her, and held her,
and closed her door at night.

And in the morning she was dead.
Anguished faces like melting wax,
voices crying “SIDS, SIDS, SIDS,”
and all the while
Dahmer
the cat,

purred.
  

Wednesday, October 4, 2017

                       Send Your Camel to Bed                               
His wallet was full of twenties,
and the sun was loitering
like a drug-buddy looking for a loan.

What people there were, were racked
at the eastern side of the bar,
where the pool tables congregated.

As his songs played out, he’d tilt his head,
as though contemplating Sigmund Freud:

                    “Midnight at the Oasis,
                                        send your camel to bed,”


but Rodin,
would have seen right through him;
he was no “Thinker.”

Meanwhile, the pool players
continued racking up laughter, telling
tall & taller tales, sinking the hours
into the pockets, one by one,

never bothering to acknowledge him,
except to replace an empty beer bottle,
and provide change, for more songs,
and he liked it that way.

      
  ********************

   
Perfect Murder

She’d only had a name
a number of weeks;
an unlucky number,
some would later say.

It’d been a difficult birth,
but she’d made it home,
in a Volkswagen Bug;
vintage.

Home to a nursery,
right out of Baby magazine.
And Mommy and Daddy
fed her, and held her,
and closed her door at night.

And in the morning she was dead.
Anguished faces like melting wax,
voices crying “SIDS, SIDS, SIDS,”
and all the while
Dahmer
the cat,

purred.
  

Wednesday, August 23, 2017



Your Voice
  
Your own voice, use your own voice,
casual and candid, forget
body armor, the wet suit,
the tux,

forget decorative tats
and the plastic surgeon’s voodoo
---A new kind of witch doctor---

forget “the hiding behind,”
whether it be society’s dumpster,
or your own misguided half shell.


 Speak with the tender flesh
of a sea devil, devoid of his exo-
skeleton,

speak with the free flowing posture
of the jelly fish,
dangling deep
in an ocean of authenticity