If life gives you lemons, don’t settle for lemonade. Make a mansion of meringue, wash it down with whisky sour.   I want to plunge a pie...

Day-twah is how you pronounced it, my ostentatious friend, as though the French were still infesting where the river worms and bends ;  ...

Come, and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastick toe —John Milton, from L'Allegro Surrounded by their chatter, we note we haven’t ...

I mime a tender cradling with my arms. You counter with a backward slap to the air. I stoop to tie my shoe. You fling yours to the wall....

I despise the word blurb. Its approximation to burp. Its truncated BS on the back,   of that book you feigned was great, essential,  ...

With your hands wrist-deep in the black of loamy soil, you tell me your infant daughter died at break of dawn, on a day that our star...

It makes no sense at all that Keats and Yeats have never rhymed.   I don’t mean that each had never used   the form in poems,   I mean...

Hear this: a puffin is not a baby penguin, despite my decades of thinking it so.   I cannot be angry at the puffin, its countenance of...

there were no more birds in the trees—well, there were, but every finch and sparrow felt relief, no more voyeurs spying on their sunrise...

The answer to this question is yes or no.   That’s three words.   Everyone assumes the yes is most important, the...

This should be a love poem nowadays. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.   There’s surely hearts involved throughout the stanzas on...

I have to say I love you in 40 lines or less.   Space between the stanzas count as a line.   This is now my 10th—11th— fuck I am in...

If it's blasphemy to say this then so be it. You are the one whom God should have made in the beginning. A more beautiful name for each...

The Trane provides me a view above the asphalt, and the fault that splits   both bleached and yellow lines.   One-way signs of...

I pluck the olives   from the salad and that makes it less than Greek. You ask me if they’re green or black and I state it makes no...

Dollar King is probably not the most idyllic place to pick up flowers, especially when they're fake.   She’ll call you cheap, deride...

I always pull my punches playing Scrabble—   just this after- noon, for instance, with a potential triple-word, my holding back an R that...

You greet me with Morning ,  never Good Morning— like you did when hearts were younger.   Morning    rises from a horizon, like an...

The final line of this poem no longer exists. It was surely there for the taking , its fingernails clutching rock, at the top of a...

The website says this poem takes a minute to read—well, if you’re an auctioneer, perhaps.   A poem is not the climax of a thriller, where...