Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Yesterday, I wrestled with my soul: it was a
slap-down with the Junkyard Dog. A Samoan drop for Gorgeous George. A Fireman’s Carry
Slam on Doubt. A Category Error
Clothes-Line Leg Sweep, a Fallacy Accident Spine Buster, Tag
Team of Straw Men: Caged Murder of False Dilemmas, a Pumphandle Drop Argument
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
I looked out the window
and saw a city in my teeth: London,
city of foodies and cookies, spy-wear suits,
and paper mâché cucumbers.
“Fucked-up, guv!”, said the cabbie.
(Referring to the Right Lane or something).
And your Hot ‘n Sour Soup queuing?
Weather like breathing a slice of salt beef?
Monday, December 28, 2009
Two Short Poems for December 28th
1. The Expert
He was the master of the proverbial bleeding.
Like an elephant without a trunk, or a lone molar grinding a walnut.
2. Louisiana Song
And then the muddy ripples across his swamp-skis, heading towards the bridge:
“Low down and dirty chariot; flanked by silos of cotton-weather”.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
My last beer with Elmar
Was toasted in poetry, and drunk in prose.
Warsteiner, in fact.
His head was haloed
by a cream-colored poster
of Johnny Halliday.
“My life, George, is about to begin.”
He stood up,
zipped up his jacket,
and walked out.
His beer – next to his wallet -
left half drunk.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
We are sailing into the Bermuda Triangle of love.
My ripped T-shirt billowing over our raft.
The days are piling up like cups on the bench.
At night the moon radiates its Turin Shroud on the dark.
We negotiate our daily Cuban Missile Crisis.
We are two fish caught in the net of sheets.