There are only so many ways you can pen of innocence. Do it with a quill and you’re precluded. For who has conferred the right—to write with another’s soul? How do you know the gull won’t circle back, scan the grit of sand for what is theirs? And why assume a circle? There are twenty trillion shapes from which to choose. Every Magen David— trigons that wouldn’t stay put. Why do we bleed out  and never in? Ink has the viscosity of life.   I have never seen the blood of bird

If it weren’t for the iridium in the strata, the rulers of the roost would still be dinosaurs— the peak of the pecking order. Waking us on the farm instead of the drawl of Foghorn Leghorn.  I’ve heard deGrasse & Dawkins say the chickens  are dinosaurs. That Colonel Sanders knew it from the start. But none would buy a share in KFD. Everything tastes like poultry in the end. It’s just the batter we all want. We were never their heir apparent; and it’s apparent we’ll be dethron

I’d be a poet if it weren’t for other poets. Twelve of them orbiting the trunk of a walnut tree, bemoaning there’s no fruit; craning up their neck like some egret, then scribbling in “regret”— as if none  have ever thought of that before. 6 of them will note they see it lean— ready to deem it Pisa. The other half- dozen focusing on the bark, incising in initials—from some latent, schoolyard love— or cleverly inserting something about a dachshund, how its bite is worse than it

“The biggest barrier is the yuck  factor” —CBC News, March 29, 2026 I wouldn’t eat them either. I’m not John the fucking Baptist. No honey/ maple syrup could ever make a difference. Gravy can only do so much. How  you hide says more than what is hidden. But this has nothing to do with brunch, or the messenger of the Lord. Or the mustard by which you’ll cloak your ballpark frank. You’re out  at first  before you’ve swung the bat. The unsighted cannot see what they are chewing

The most senseless faux pas life ever made was heaving itself to land. Its sands that bore our serpents. Fish are never thirsty. Fins have never felt a crucifixion. Or hangnails lasting weeks. The wrench of aging backs—while pulling up their socks. Each one with its holes like effervescence. We were all better off in the sea. No partition of the waters. Clods with a nuclear code. Everything was sushi.   The octopus? A spider who changed her mind. Floating in the deep as if th

Never write a poem when you are hungry. Much like a grocery run—the bill is thrice the price when you are famished. Your potatoes a bag of boulders on your back. Never paint a landscape while you’re starving. The willows will be leafless—not because it’s winter but each green the look of sage, and you envision it as season for your trout— which will multiply profusely in your river— that pretzels through the canvas peacock blue. Every fowl’s fare with an empty gut.   You will

I bet you Kratos  couldn’t open this pickle jar. As if it had been fastened by cement. I lament the fact if I   can’t get to the gherkins, what’s a little old lady supposed to do? The bag in the box of Apple Smacks refuses to be pried. The glue from a thousand steeds. Considering what it’s doing to my obliques, it's a GoodLife all its own. What’s a little old lady supposed to do? The can opener’s called in sick. Every single canine’s chipped or broke. It’s as useful as Gums M

They say the hand is quicker than the eye.  Everything is, really. Two turtles playing catch-up with a squirrel—seeing its bounding appendage in ellipse. If rats had fluffy tails, we’d all be stuffing walls with provolone. I caught your beauty in a mirror—my sight was somewhat slower than my tongue. I said I would have loved you had my pupils honed in sooner—some phantom afternoon in Jacob Park. Years are much too long to house regret. It’s why the tortoise drags its feet. Th

Everyone assumes the painting of the cherries is about the fruit and not the bowl. Or never concerning the pit that’s ever-lurking— like a landmine for your throat. My uncle choked on one. The stem, that is. So consumed with fretting about the middle. Of the bowl, I mean. Belonging to my aunt; the scratch that he inflicted, for which he blamed the cat. When Molly came back home— newly declawed— unable to use her paws to snag the mice, his remorse hung in the air just like a c

I’ve learned I’ve pondered the trees in a fallacious way. Yes, I’m aware the poets gorge on oak & ash. A sycamore is less. Their buds outnumber the sand. But all this time their branches have been roots—roots have been their scions— stretching to a sacrilege of light, the undertow of earth. This is why the moles are nearly blind. Treasure at the bottom of abyss. Squinting’s a game for the quick & not the dead.   Who decides what’s sky? Behold the flight of worms.   Our grands

Nothing’s quite as dull as watching continental drift. Its half-an-inch per solstice. Helios will burst in nova before Seattle’s in Japan. Forget the thirsty walls imbibing Behr at a slothy pace. And dismiss the sprouting grass— the futility of its stretch to brush the sky. Of course, you could coax yourself to yawn with a looking glass, observe your growth of brows. But I'm unable to do the nails—nibbled to their lunula to calm my nerves. And if you ask me, they’re more like

Don’t serenade my tombstone with your sobbing violins, or play a sombre requiem for my God-forsaken soul. Laugh out loud in lieu, not in metaphor but for real— I’m just beyond your touch but not the still of a subtle prayer. See me in the spectrum as the glass breaks down the colours: sweating, pitching haggard baseballs in a lot in Tennessee, quarrelling with the ump, hurling spitters past the plate; and on days I’m feeling calmer, serving ice cream cones to children beneath

Maybe I’m making assumptions, but I’m guessing folks at O’Malley’s Pub won’t exactly be pondering the Trinity. Sure, clovers are a-plenty. Irish brews are green. Every drunken lout has been screeching Molly Malone. If there was ever a White Man’s Day  then this is it. Socks up to the knees. The vacant, bloodshot eyes. No one in line at the restroom to simply rest.   It really doesn’t matter if the snow won’t deliquesce. If icicles mimic stilettos over every Kelly’s head.   Ye

We assumed that he was rude when he never clapped. Even the maestro glared his way. A handshake never proffered. Flowers never jutting from his fingers. Fingers never peeking from his sleeve— a brood of stunted pupae— shy kids much too scared to step on stage. Some surmised thalidomide. That he’d never found the right prosthetic. Or perhaps it was the left. Even from the start he’d push the abacus with his nose. Olly Olly Oxen never freed. Unable to tag another. Scribe that y

The meek shall inherit the Earth  or so I’ve heard. Humans aren’t meek—so it definitely ain’t gonna be us. Maybe it’s why the Son of God had said it. We lose our humility—the very second we think we’ve snagged it. I reckon He spoke of horses—bringing us to and fro  like a humble rickshaw. Or hauling us in a carriage round the park—no place that is private for relief—a shovel to scoop the mess, couples seeing nothing but their ass.   The jockey bags the money not the steed. It

When I was a kid, there were only 10 or 11 moons— orbiting my favourite planet. Now there’s two-hundred & seventy-four. Somehow it’s less romantic.   I’d rather circle Saturn than our star. You assume it’s for the rings. Everyone loves the rings. I counter basketball —the Wilson frozen halfway through the rim, allowing me to savour the final bucket that wins the game.   But in case you don’t believe me, I’ll say it’s the way the 8-ball slowly sinks in the centre pocket— the a

Fog is a poor man’s cloud. Stumbling in the fall from which we sprung. I speak of the impoverished, not the mist that shrouds their steps. The pond is the poor man’s ocean. Watch him skipping stones along its rim. Triune in their bounce. Rocks are a poor man’s mountain. Bits of a broken soul.   Why the laurels for the summit? The climbing up   applauded? No one takes the time to view descent,   to measure beneath the base. None who plant a pennant at its feet.   We seldom spe

You say I have a yellow thumb. Our ferns are over-quenched. Adding we should nurture succulents: they never ask for more than what is needed. I’ve shrivelled from your bellicose tropes: the beach doesn’t need the waves to be a beach.  That merely the grains suffice, and you long for Kalahari: sand is not a desolate place. You’ve left me parched & wanting—a single drop enduring in the throat of my canteen, preferring a snake’s maraca   to the rattle of a baby’s toy we bought f

A million years from now, none of this will matter. I mean this poem & all the others. Not you, my paramour—though unless you make the chronicles of Terra, painted like Da Vinci, sculpted like Rodin, sung like Etta James— you’ll be nothing but dust to dust. So why am I sketching the pupils of your eyes? Swelling like a tumour when you’re scared, while you tumble down in unrequited love?    Why add pigments to your hair, creases round your mouth as though you’ve laughed your l

Even as a child, you never feared the night. It’s only the birl of the Earth. The rats that clawed the walls? You left them Camembert, Shiraz to wash it down. Cognac for the spiders. Oysters for each Geist or pretzeled snake. You stood upon your head in tilt-a-whirls, watched The Exorcist at midnight, conjured Latin lyrics for Tubular Bells.   I’m not afraid of the dark. It’s afraid of me.   You likened every goth to Daisy Mae, got a tattoo on your tongue in order to know how