Fear the Mobius
strip mind: one-sided, closed-off
and severely kinked.

Shopworn covers, brittle pages,
faded, handled carelessly -
dime-store dreams locked up for ages
in the musty library.

Risks untaken, words unspoken
stacked in cornered memories
beside the shelves that hold the broken
spines of bound-up fantasies.

no of course
you would not notice me
the guy who walks your dog
those nights you go out
for dinner and combat

why yes i'd love to
fill in as your partner
for mixed doubles
flashing a smile at you
as you score and walk off the court

the one who gets you giggling
through your tears
those nights when
the handsome *******
earn their names

me, who'll you'll trust
with your car
with your plants
with your house
with your life
but not your heart

you tell me i'm first
in your syntax of friends
yet I'm so starved for you
that leftovers
will feed me for days

Conjunctions creak, the adverbs ache,
nouns bear more than they can take.
Verbs are screaming for Ben-Gay
while pronouns atrophy away.

Adjectives have lost their bite,
possessives just give up the fight.
The subject's upset, naught agrees,
which weakens metaphoric knees.

Contractions all together moan;
the objects better left alone.
Ah, life is at a frightful stage
when poets and their poems age.

why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds

Sapphic poems call upon mathematic
skills, as meter meted out over three lines,
groups of two feet followed by three, again two,
                              ending with five beats.

Even this old formalist, prehistoric
in his method, limps along through elevens,
just like playing Jethro Tull, Lynyrd Skynyrd;
                              seven-four, five-four.

Hear the roar of dinosaurs in the tar pits,
stuck in sonnets, villanelles, rhymes and rhythms,
sinking slowly, praying for preservation;
                              creative fossils.

"and who might you be?"
he asked in a voice
hahdah than a newenglandbed

"just a fellow poet who was read
your poems in fifth grade
and fell in love with words"

"a )poet(?  why of all most the amazing
things on earth would you
want to do that?"

"it never was a want"

Most of my tries to
be funny end up being
self-defecating.

Empathy: watching
someone draining their venom
without sampling it.

Naked, moaning softly, bathed in sweat,
jaw agape and panting. Such a sight;
a perfect beauty I'll not soon forget.

Charming evening's prelude to a night
where passion grinds your voice to feral growl,
jaw agape and panting.  Such a sight.

The gentle purring now belies the howl
from shattering release that takes you whole
where passion grinds your voice to feral growl.

Your strong yet silken legs enfold my soul,
as you recover life from petit mort,
from shattering release that takes you whole.

No need to contemplate what's still in store,
I'll hold this waking dream until we sleep
as you recover life from petit mort.

Tomorrow's work and worries all will keep,
I'll hold this waking dream until I sleep.
Naked, moaning softly, bathed in sweat,
a perfect beauty I'll not soon forget.