Imminent Jam



English isn’t my first language:

It is the glossolalia of improving my mile.


Isn’t that what the man said?


Well, then, that always seems like always a

Hair further

Don’t it?

Man and woman alike can get tonguetwisted


Colloquially and in the finest farthest reaches

Of underpasses, townhomes and high-rises.

Eventually we trip over our tongues when the red light goes on.

By then, it’s time to get off anyways…


So knuckle under and buckle up, buttercup.

I’ll hold the steak knife to your supple chin

And by pray by dints, the glint on the blade

Blinds us all.

Redolent Glory


The chemtrails are beautiful today

Like an Abolitionist’s tears

Upon learning hegemony has been institutionalized

By a constitutional amendment: grand indeed.


The sad sickening sucking sound

You heard was the farm fresh eggs.

I’m sorry, I used to bag down at the Acme in high school.

My tools are leaving me. Still that dent


Can get pounded out. I just need

A common household plunger, a ball-peen hammer,

Some crow’s feet and a smoker’s cough.

Oh, and prayers. Lots of prayers.


Don’t worry, though, tune in tonight

When The Dictator hands you the keys


It travels on wishes and ice cream.


And by the way the Inspector would like a word

With you before you transmigrate.

Lately, he’s been feel super-sized and nonplussed

So it may take a while.


Make yourself comfortable.

Can I get you anything?

Anything at all?

Within reason?

If A Poet Dies Does He Make A Sound?


Oh, did you hear?

L the poet died.

No, feigned mourning,

I hadn’t.



Fire up the laptop,

Gas up the time machine,

Dog-ear the Bible.


Sigh, They’re all dying

To the click-clack of the keyboard,

To the swipes of approval

Or disapproval.


In a Democracy everyone gets to Heaven.

Once there you can rate it:

0 being worst and 5 being best.

In an Oligarchy it’s pay-to-play.


We still get to write our review

But only from the vestibule,

And, of course, no one reads it.

Like L’s poetry.