Poetry Archives Bio


portrait of wife as refrigerator light

July 7, 2020
To Rod Moody-Corbett

I put on my boots of doom

I go out to the yard
in my hands
a perambulator of death

the dandelions bow their heads
to me  and are no more

all crimes are crimes of passion

the narcissus blooms
at the front of the house
the clematis explodes

you break up the barbarous driftwood
in your hands it crumbles

between the donkeys and now

i titrate my feelings
I pray for wind
I reach for your comma toes

i consider the girl who has mushrooms growing out of her face who when it rains avoids her boyfriend who is upset for a reason he does not understand but suspects that in actuality the girl avoids him because of the mushrooms growing out of her face

postprandial promenades

remind me that I have given birth
to many a dog  at low battery o'clock
the sir must stir

to be shown the rhythm of business
to be shorn

jesus rose

but we missed
the decisive moment
we forgot

his eyes had flashed
his hair had floated

thus now remains the question

should I
after groans
and sighs and feelings

have the strength to clean
the coffee off the ceiling

things spoken in pentameter

are true  things spoken
in a halting anapest are false
and before the evening falls

we return the power
tools to our parents

and fake it 'til we

found poem XI or Go Fish II

July 7, 2020
To Laurie Ricou

steelhead is not salmon

salmon trout and steelhead
are types of trout

an entirely different fish
from the same family of fish

as salmon

salmon is always a salmon

but a steelhead starts its life out
as a rainbow trout

if the rainbow trout
migrates to the ocean

it becomes a steelhead

if it never goes to the ocean

it stays a rainbow trout
for its entire life

because they are closely
related (and taste similar

steelhead is sometimes marketed

as steelhead salmon  (the store
    had it improperly labeled
  as such

her womb is a room

March 23, 2020

a room with a view
a broom that smells
or a wound that swells

   a guardian in an ovary
   bleeding ivory
   reading bovary

a mound of bloom
a flume of doom
or a plume of gloom

   a papery sober coterie
   breaking pottery
   playing lottery

she croons to the dunes
she grooms for the tomb
she zooms with the boom

      she swoons

pater noster

February 17, 2020

the supermarket hum follows me home
it is a tough season for produce

inside there is nothing but empty space
to be filled with furniture and lonelineſs

orgasms reach god faster than prayer
scalpels don't rip  birds don't sing

I am beset by wood inspired plank flooring
my head spins because of the variety of veg

my father gives me knives but fails
to ask for payment for he is a mute

and yet it is how men make love  with words
it is with this we'll start the test of taking

my head spins  boys by the hour for rent
run up to me  hasheesh all you can eat

what's my hourly rate daddy
(they want others to struggle like they struggle

i ignore them  instead I dip deep the tip
of my roast beef  it's too late in the day

does the basic dial remind you of good times
does the running machine leak electric onto the track

i get brought down by a girl with a beautiful frown
she puts it in the monster's maw

she leads it out to the mountain
and delivers it there without a word

Dirty Limericks X

February 10, 2020

A young witch named Krystal once said,
"Now bring a young stud to my bed!"
She then cast a curse to make him perverse,
And now they're quite happily wed.

A young girl named Robyn was pleased
To find a big bounty of cheese.
It was quite refined, the smell of her rinds,
But her neighbours would die from a breeze.

A young girl named Claudia quoted,
"I do feel a little bit bloated."
She sipped just a smidge of the wine in her fridge
And then dog of tofu deepthroated!

The Knife Sharpener Comes

January 11, 2020

Can you hear the bell?
Can you hear the bell?
That familiar call,
That familiar knell,
The jangle and swell,
The jingle and drawl?

The knife sharpener
Is at the city wall.

He comes once a month
With his horse and cart.
For the townsfolk he will
Practice his art.

From afar and from near,
From each hut and house,
All the townsfolk will come,
Each son, man, and spouse.

Can you hear the toll?
Can you hear the toll?
That familiar knell,
That familiar call,
The rattle and clang,
The clatter and blare?

The knife sharpener
Is at the city square.

The children run homeward
To chatter at parents.
The mothers wipe aprons
And leave all their errands.

The fathers all gather
All things sharp and pointed
And carry them, singing,
To the place once appointed.

Can you hear the chime?
Can you hear the chime?
That familiar call,
That familiar knell,
The clang and the peal,
The tinkle and groan?

The knife sharpener
Is now wetting his stone.

The townsfolk queue up
And bring to the fore
Blade, carver, and cutter,
Sickle, skewer, and sword,

Dagger, machete, scalpel, and lance,
Ripper, stiletto, and sabre,
Cutlass and scimitar, switchblade and shiv,
Bayonets still attached to persuaders.

Can you hear the cry?
Can you hear the cry?
That familiar knell,
That familiar call,
The holler and wail,
The yell and yelp?

The knife sharpener comes
And no one will help.

First, he sharpens his wits
By braining the brave.
Next, he sends every child
To a cobblestone grave.

Every person he blesses
Fills with his blood
The teeming town square—
A vermilion flood.

Can you hear the howl?
Can you hear the shriek?
That newly born wail
Of the dying meek,
The screams that abate
As the lives are lost?

The knife sharpener
Is thanking his hosts.

He packs up his cart,
On his horse a harness.
In his chest he feels
His old heart's stone hardness.

As he exits the town,
He changes his shape
From a man to a beast,
Hooves show from his cape.

Can you hear the wind?
Did you hear this tale?
The knife sharpener
Is in the next vale.
Don't open the gate,
Pray you save your lives,
And tomorrow and after
Sharpen your knives.

Can you hear the bell?
Can you hear the bell?

the carrying across

January 3, 2020

my husband wakes me with his heft
tells me
            he's off to the gym
he opens the kitchen curtains

I turn over then  submerge again

centuries later he returns
  bearing hot liquids

  I accept
and listen to his bathroom machinations
as he

         revels in music and water

later we reconvene
and I negotiate with him his p'tit D.

he asks questions of me
                                    I try to consider
in back
appraise that which
                             his wont won't

  what can still be consumed
  what is still desired
  was geht mit was

(don't get me wrong
my husband's grateful for his daily bread

  but my heart grows brambles
  when he rambles and wanders and wanders and rambles

while here
  and bread

    I'm already planning
    his next three meals


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