Type B

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Born nameless without sin

We exit otherwise;

Meh, what can you do?

 

Live up to our names and sins

Or risk pissing off the Gods?

Better then being pissed on, eh?

 

Keep it moving Guthrie,

Your songs don’t play

On this jukebox.

 

From sea to shining sea

The gods burn upon re-entry

With nary a fizzle or kerplunk.

 

We carve ice sculptures in hell,

Fashion thimbles from granite boulders

With our bare hands.

 

Other times we nap.

Dreaming of names and sins,

Lonely as all get out.

If A Poet Dies Does He Make A Sound?

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Oh, did you hear?

L the poet died.

No, feigned mourning,

I hadn’t.

 

Quick,

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.

Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning

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Poems are always getting

Snatched out of the ether

Between our ears

Or someone else’s

 

Like a candle flickers

Into a corner of a dark room.

We didn’t make the candle

Or build the room.

 

We struck the match

And more than sometimes

That is enough.

It’s ok.

 

Keep the tapers cool,

The matches dry and

All the corners stocked

With attributes and awareness.

Secret Communion

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In the secret communion of used

Bookstores, a myth, a glyph or a

Sylph swirls like dust riffling out

Of long ago abandoned house

 

Riffing like time’s magnet,

A piercing wail of multitudes

From the back of the bus –

Where you going mister?

 

Where you got?

Passed the great blonde fields

Where the locusts kick up

The motes of original sin.

 

Bound now like a fetish,

The spine dried brittled yellow

But uncowardly because

How scared are you if you go

 

Anywhere? Anywhere at

All like Tangiers, Hakkaido,

Detroit, Tierra Del Fuego?

The ends of the earth or its center?

Daylight

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Things get back to slipping

Smelling like something burning in a church.

Books pile up on the futon like dishes in the sink

Or vice versa  or Vice vs. Virtue

 

For all that it matters.

Memory is soup scalding the tip of your tongue

Cursing yourself for impatience.

But the check may clear yet.

 

The days are liquid

Like quicksilver in your hands

Heavy and poisonous as the mercury

Kept in a small recyclable plastic vial

 

In the pantry off the kitchen,

Its lid snapped tight, expiration date mutable

Unlike its neighbor the macaroni & cheese.

If I make coffee, will you stay for a cup?

Bored to the Core

Off the space shuttle, Charlie

He’s got the balls to say to me

Like i’m not knee deep in terra firma as it is.

And my name’s not Charlie.
But that’s how they do you.

It’s a shell game.

A master of the universe spiel

That divides and conquers.
What are they afraid of?

Unity?

Coherence?

Reason?
“If A then B therefore C

Right?

Or not always…”

And it’s that last part
That “or not always…”

That gets them, bores

Down to the cores

Of their fat, full bellies.