CRED

Poets of tomorrow
Take heed
of the new breed
of characters
offsprung
from that pirouetting medium
with their curt clerics
sweeping one-line languages
under limpid ambassador
coughs
Tweety bird Nobels
wadding the obvious
into a wholesome oration
dashed with sardonic
garlic and ironic salt
These characters are not
down with death
Integers and melancholy
aren’t on that clock
All the time required
to bootleg
the nectar of that sweet
poetic payoff of yours
stands to melt
in transcendent evenness
over evolution’s silicon
umbrella
Poets don’t inflict depression
They don’t vaccinate you
with punctuation

03 29 20

YOU’RE NOT READY FOR THE REAL THING

We’re apocalyptin’ here
when it’s more of an
apocalypsinc
Breath holding in the voice
with a soothsayer’s spite
You’re not ready for the real thing
hisses evolution
and in harmony pollution
Flip-sides are greener than
freshly groomed grass
I could iron all the ruffled
and neglected streets
with the irony of this inverted
loneliness
Where are all the words
when I need them?
Sole informants
on the mythic whereabouts
of infinity?
Never should it have achieved
this crescendo of diluted levity
Wake me when the reformatted
census ends

03 23 20

DREAMS OF AIR FOR A BREATH

A voice strewn blue and skittish
over pages pleading for your eyes
dreams of air for a breath
of a sound for your ears
now that I have aced
to implied infinity
the recitations of a muted conscience
sympathetically refined to (my best hope
for) emphatically-designed decrees of
commonalities numb and nondescript
amid the undeterred currents of
robotic small talk’s swamp of
gestures and conjunctions

With what degree of force
would I knock upon your wall
to rule out the freneticism
of disharmony’s snivelling parade of
blood-deaf messengers?
How little force
would relay to you the gap
between a knock of melody and noise?
And am I even sure I’ve learned
to swim incessantly enough to greet you
with some aspiration in my bloodless voice
to emulate wallpaper?

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