Archive for the 'verse' Category

air lines

I’m wearing a muscle-suit onto the plane—
And I like it, it feels quite impressive,
But there is one thing I cannot explain:
People don’t think I’m aggressive!

They ignore my demands for the seat by the window;
They stand around blocking the aisle…
I suppose I could try a right-hook to the chin, although
That really isn’t my style.

It seems that the power of foam-rubber pecs
Comes not from their image of strength,
But from what I guess is a healthy respect
For a man who will go to this length

To get his own way when it comes to air travel.
Maybe it’s really not fair
To blame folks who think that, if I should unravel,
They’d rather not be in midair.

I just didn’t predict they would get so irate—
My purpose was not to inflame,
But nonetheless, we cannot meet at the gate:
You can pick me up at baggage claim.

close shaves with mortality

I felt a funeral on my chin—
A razor, to and fro,
Kept shaving, shaving, till it seemed
The skin was breaking through.

Then, shaving cream depleted,
A faucet like a gun
Kept rinsing, rinsing, till I thought
My hand was going numb.

And then I felt it lift the blade,
And scrape across my lip
With those same teeth of steel again.
My face began to drip

As all the heavens were a bowl,
And shaving but a tear,
And my complexion a disgrace,
Wrecked, solitary, here.

I think, therefore

Iambic penthouse! Let me in your rooms
To soil your carpets with my piles of words,
And irrigate your sofas with my herds
Of periods and, from their fertile wombs,
Quotations, semi-colons, question marks—
Each one a-suckle at the foul milk
Of hubris, angst, pretension, and their ilk.
Hey! Knock-knock! At your door a poem barks!
Or moos, or squawks—whatever poems do.
It craves the luscious clarity within—
Suave diction smeared with pentametric glue—
That lets a poem rise above the din
Of this prose-aic, nether-wordly stew.
You can’t refuse! Now come invite me in.

(Thanks to my Christmas present.)