crack of thunder unleashed the deluge
voided with such ferocity
boomeranged from paved over
pooled into rivers of latte-coloured torrents;
Genre: Poetry
Sordino
The diving bell spider refuses to live on land.
Instead, it spins a silk bubble to breath underwater.
The window is a time-lapse lens gutting
people in the street and there is nothing in this
room but pain curetting round the curtains and a nurse
The Poem is Over
The poem is over,
its day come and gone.
This announcement is
to comfort the reader,
the dying reader.
Post-Donald
After we broke up, Donald met a reporter
he married in Madrid, had three kids. For years
I’d get Christmas cards, “Hope you had a great year
and were in many plays, Donald.” I did some plays,
won no Tony’s, had a good face. Remember
Dear Reader
The mink shouldered out of its cage,
paced four meters square.
I admired the indexed spine. The guard hairs
slick. The mouth
suspect.
Noiembre
The sense of a doom-laden plaidoyer is inevitable
The Vulcans
Star Trek good-and-evil policy making
Bush’s pig-in-shit smirk
“Middle East politics are like those of the ancient world—Greek or Roman could understand them better than an American”