They preen, they brag, they cluck like hens
Favorite pastime? Schmoozing with friends

They lunch, they party, they go to the races
Wearing Versace and botoxed faces

They worship the sun, the moon, and the stars
And fill up their lives with mansions and cars

They spray tan each day to enhance their appeal
These housewives are everything...except real

I. The Assassin

    Smoke and dust
    **** oxygen
    from his puny lungs
    as he rises on an
    ancient freight elevator

    At the warehouse window,
    he assumes a darker mask,
    his bony finger
    tracing the trigger's curve,
    his beady eyes narrowing in
    on the slow moving target:
    that famous sculpted
    head of state
    so perfect
    in the plaza light

    Finally he will plummet -
    a bruised puppet
    slipping through
    a surreal night,
    a phantom of smoke and dust
    blinking in the glare
    of a Dallas lineup

II. The First Lady

    Her deep whispery voice
    unspools a reel of film:
    crowds, blinding sun,
    a promise of shade
    in the distance,
    then a sudden odd quizzical look
    on her husband's face

    She recalls that moment
    of slow motion shock:
    that serrated piece of his skull
    floating lazily
    in a blur
    toward
    her
    bright
    pink
    lap

It seems to wander in and out
As if in outer space.
It's never where I left it last.
It never stays in place.
I check each shelf and every room
And every nook and cranny,
But this is one disappearing act
That always proves uncanny
For I know I'll never find it
So I pound my fist and mutter...
I'm left bereft, alone, depressed,
Come back, O peanut butter!

I will be brief,
If I may,
In what I do,
In what I say.
Your words hurt me
More than you know.
I'm leaving now
As blankets of snow
Cover the earth
Beautifully white,
Flakes whirling fiercely
On a harsh winter night.
It's almost that time
For peace and good will,
But I am still hurt
And so I will still
Hold on to my feelings,
My anger, my doubt,
Wondering as I leave
If you'll figure out
What it means to be left,
To be tossed aside,
Forgotten, bereft -
Alone without pride.
Yes, my heart's broken,
And my loss is deep,
But now I know just what you are -
A miserable, heartless creep.

giddy
with two gin & tonics
mary jo
reluctantly
moves behind the wheel
on this lonely
humid
moonless
night

she squirms
in the unadjusted seat
squinting
at the insects zooming
in the headlights' glare

putting the car
in drive
her twenty-second ride
begins in panic
hurtling down a
dirt road
littered with ruts
her right foot straining
to reach the gas pedal

she approaches the
rickety bridge
but its flat
anonymity
makes no impression
as she proceeds
forward and
down
into the swift current
the tidal splash of
two tons of metal
unheard
unseen

unaware
the nervous senator
walks toward the cottage
wondering if mary jo
will find her way back

he suddenly remembers that
a man will soon step
on the moon
but his thoughts
are diverted
by the fragile sound
of girlish chatter
rising from the clammy darkness
like an aria
or an omen

the
thin
poem
has
a
few
solid
rules:
one
or
two
or
three
words
at­ the most
to
a
line
and
keep
the
subject
simple
don't
muddy
the
reader's
brain
with
poems
about
suicide
or
adolescence
or
the
loss
of
beauty
or
innocence
or
some
crazy
time
someone
had
at
a
drive-in
movie
a
hundred
years
ago
on
a
hot
sticky
night
with
a
godzilla-like
monster
fil­ling
the
screen
while
they
were
sprawled
out
on
the
backseat
of
an
old
chevy
(and
why
is
it
always
an
old
chevy?)

thin
poems
should
not
explore
*******
or
the
rumblings
of
gastrointes­tinal
distress
or
*******
or
descriptions
of
the
napes
of
necks
or
the
sizes
of
*******
or
the
way
certain
people
use
their
bodies
in
moments
of
intense
passion

thin
poems
should
center
on
lofty
themes
romantic
ideals
and
maybe
sometimes
even
ponder
the
existence
of
god

you
could
also­
write
a
pretty
good
thin
poem
about
a
spider
skimming
along
a
gossamer
thread
b­ut
i
think
that
one's
probably
already
been
done
to
death

less
is best