Tightrope strung
too high
above a reckless
orchestra, can’t
find a downbeat:
conductor’s
lost her
ictus, and the
soprano’s slipped off
the descant
stumbling drunken
dotted rhythms
in stepwise
motion just
short of lilting
glissando.
Concertmaster’ll break
a string to
catch the pitch
carry a well-chewed
tune. Good boy.
Don’t
miss the entrance
or you’ll tumble,
ritornello
to double bars and
slide straight down a
spit-slick trombone
tuner. Wouldn’t
even mind if Ms.
Grey-Eyed
French Horn
would sneak a
wink, but
we’ll get no
Picardy third
tonight, just
minor keys
and fully-diminished
encores.

Pay dirt
Pay phones
Pay the sitter for her time in hell
with the twins
You'll never earn enough
to call long distance
Unless you move to Italy
and live the dream
of making heart-shaped pizzas

(Just for fun, let’s play a game: put pen to paper or fingers to keyboards and spill out a poem, every line the first thing that pops into your head. Be as passive as possible, keep editing to a minimum and let’s see what surrealist stuff we come up with. Comment if you participate so I can read yours.)

Here is your
fog warning
you’ve lost your lenses
can’t quite make sense when
the power is out
is the feeling you feel
real
or temporary
nonsense neurons and
chemicals, burned up
by blood-heat
meaningless
out of focus or
broken, bulging
in the kaleidoscope,
your only telescope
for sighting land.
If clarity is the
end goal I think
my arrow is flying
well off target
better adjust
my anchor point,
search for
solid ground
or maybe just
a noose to hang onto
one exquisite
corpse looking for
a mausoleum,
something sturdy
stone or metal,
earth-binding.
Sorry, Universe,
I’m not quite
ready for any more
time in the heavens.