The Poetry of
Michael G. Khmelnitsky

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 that grow 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


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