You are currently browsing the monthly archive for March, 2008.
I eat meat because
it’s Texas. Tender steak like
beef cotton candy.
We all complain there’s
no place to plug in. One by
one, our laptops die.
When you’re in a long
meeting, now you have two things
to look at while bored.
Slanting through speckled
panes, turning cobwebs into
faerie gossamer.
Muddy quads, walls bare
of ivy still inspire awe.
Can we get in?
Ph.D.s waitress
here, M.A.s babysit, ’cause
no one wants to leave.
Hills like cut paper
black against tissue blue skies.
Through poked holes, stars shine.
Haiku, like bonsai,
needs care and pruning. A mind
unfocused kills both.
Incrementally
I clean unearthing a clear
space on the table.
on another blog
gross comment deposited
like defecation
haven’t found me yet
they lurk like dirty water
under dark bridges
Now that the snow is
gone, her neglected garden
pokes up stalks of loss.
Wan, pale, red-eyed, she’s
the poster wife of Wynette’s
song, “Stand By Your Man.”
While I throw pennies
into a coin jar, Bear Stearns
gets a big bailout.
Alan Dershowitz
said about prostitution
the lie men believe.
When a righteous man
is caught with his pants down, it’s
likely he’ll get spanked.
posted to my Twitter account
I need sleep, but I * need to work but I need sleep * to work can’t think straight.
posted to my Twitter account
Project due and I * like the late adopter I * am, haven’t finished.
Unaware of her
beauty, unselfconsciousness
gives each movement grace.
Geeks transformed into
leading men stop hearts, but then
revert back next day.
Heating system dust -
particles of previous
occupants’ lives, selves.
Hats, gloves, put away
in optimism return
for winter’s last gasp.
Bergamot infused
leaves unfurl comfort. Problems
dissipate like steam.
Left in Manhattan
cab. Friends’ numbers, pix of my
kids in strangers’ hands.
From an estate sale -
pendulum clock. Westminster
chimes now count my days.
Emily Bronte * labored quietly but I * scream “Here are my words!”
It’s said women swoon
at his rallies, yet his wife
once called him stinky.
Spring ahead and lose
an hour. What I could have done
in that length of time…
It’s fun to see what
it’s like and then go back to
being nobody.
Tourists whisked to the
top while on tenant floors, one
hears “shhhhhhsss” like secrets.
Like a hick I tilt my
head to see the top and
ponder tossed pennies.
In the skyscraper
canyons, light outlines moving
shapes sipping Starbucks.
I am the dull one, struck
mute by accomplishment
what I do, nothing.
Like a jeweler
displaying gems on velvet
wealth gleams beyond reach
“We’re domestic,” a
blonde woman tells her daughter
in line at the gate.
Flushing Meadows Park
once a site of hope. There, a
globe pledged future peace.
On a cluttered Queens
balcony he stands, watching
the complex decay.
a dilemma of
riches in tiny topaz
the art of language
Recent Comments