Archive | POETRY RSS feed for this section

Blots & blots of Words…


it broke.

(the vase)

sure, I had to throw it against the wall

a few times,

(or a million)

but the smashing of it

surprised me

–liquid spilled everywhere!

cutting tender toes

as I struggled to mop it up

Lacking towel

(and mop)

the crumpled paper balls I employed

–created incidental Rorschach art,

and poetry that looked quite like words—

but proved ineffective

(in the l-o-n-g run)

and clothing cut into

tourniquets couldn’t staunch

the bleed, either

–water colored paradoxically

rose from those toes—

and though I cursed the mess soundly,

that didn’t work as well as I thought it might.

that spill spread!

A mixed metaphor–

the wildfire of it

soaked rugs,

seeped through floorboards,

and dripped into

every story in my house,

saturating everything in red

–which made me angry,

. . .

and hungry

. . .

and more attractive to the opposite sex, even so–

(as red will)

and it wasn’t until

the liquification of home

and hearth

was near complete,

that I noticed

there had been no

Gerbers in that

infernal vessel

–after all.

Hah’ma’nah, Hah’ma’nah, Homonyms

‘met the doctor at the dock

to stock up D.O.C.

but that codger was a cock

and talked of C.O.D.

brokered banker on the bank

to bankroll I.O.U.

thanked less, thankless

HMO, who wanked less PDQ

Poppin’ pop, I popped the lot

and plopped on dock to chill,

drifting off, I drifted off

(a spill induced by pill)

waking then, I followed wake

–of boat–

avoiding own,

moral is, skip all biz

with quacks who

throw you stones.

Tense of Thousands

Charrons Chatter dba Karen Robiscoe or whatevs
all of a sudden

–over unbounded days—

the passive tone is voiced

is it surrender?

and supposing

–is it progress?

the articulation is changed

yes, sure,

and the founder



. . .

it’s anchor is unmoored

from the pylon

–and on, and on—

(ad infinitum)

whereon it was docked


(a relative term)

but is this founder




. . .

and is



(or stagnate)


(and fresh)


(or boarding)

is it a giver of life,

or does founder




. . .


All at Once

Since hindsight

proved 20/20

I do the only sensible thing

–I schedule every yesterday

Plot and plan the past so meticulously

there’s hardly any conflict whatsoever

secure in the reality

that what’s next—was

.I never ruminate.

.nor muse in maudlin fashion.

.nor even wax nostalgic.

(for tomorrow)

on events not passed

opportune knocks untapped

orations unuttered

all hanging–over

–over ever on the brink—

gulping full-strength, preemptive aspirin

to prevent former headache

–hoarding the present

like a Grinch

(who will)

recording the now

like a stenographer

(with full permission)

marking time

like a to-done list

(before the stain sets in)

eager to

get back

to back


scored through.

Conjecture Lectures

who’s to say

life’s better than death

such declarations

are guessing at best

‘cause when we are kicking

we can’t really know

if it’s better above

or 6 feet below

if daisies are pushed

by body and spirit

or soul is long gone

no loves-me-not near it

if worms get their chow

from all that we are

or some part of us

transcends salad bar

if light that we lit

is fried like a wire

or bulb keeps its charge

with breaker that’s higher

if soul is recycled

in new incarnation

til lessons are learned

(a lengthy furcation)

if judgement of life

is given by guy

bearded and glowing

son by his side

if that fella’s biased

by faith or by name

if Jehovah and Yahweh

and Allah’s the same

if we’re simulations

and never leave pod

projections for gamers

a hologram spot

if God’s an electron

a quantum equation

a “hard to pin down”

root of creation

so who’s to say

death’s better than life

the area’s grey

not black & not white.

oRiginal teXt

In the Beginning

there was the Word,

and the Word was

. . .

–well, piecemeal.

Written on the inside

of a discarded burrito wrapper

in the middle of the night

–sans light, since even the Big Guy kept the wee hours shady—

a goodly portion of this scrawl was hard to decipher come daybreak

(the 2nd day)

–the scribble in direct burro dribble downright illegible–

(too bad, because it was Good)

consigning 2 of the Original dozen commandments to the bin straightaway,

while the remaining 10 were ballpark at best.

Sure, the “do not kill” admonition

ultimately insured mankind’s survival in a manner the intended “do not kill time” directive probably wouldn’t have,

(over time, anyway)

and granted,

the dictate condemning theft

kept the masses in check

(and check-out lines)

to a greater degree than the proposed “do not veal” might have,

(tough on the calves in both instances, though)

but the instruction

to forego adulthood was completely misinterpreted.

Resulting in millennia worth of automatons,

and Grown-Olds quite impervious to

the daily wonders all around them.

(sliced bread, and people short on guts come to mind)

So you can see why a New Testament was in order, which by then, Thank God

Jobs and Gates were around to micro (soft) manage.

(that Apple was Originally a persimmon!)

True, the advent of auto-correct misconstrued the Golden Rule, and

“Do until others do unto you” was salvaged only when the G Man ran a half-assed spell-check,

and yes, the hyper-link to heaven was rife with malware

a certain disgruntled Wingman had coded,

(whereas wifi became the focus one was cautioned not to covet)

–but altogether, the kinder, gentler version

of the Almighty’s creed was a runaway success, and lo–

God 2.0 was branded.

like pulling teeth

Offended by lies,

I plucked all mine out

–as many as I could remember, anyway–

Swirl-swiffing webs, and

Chucking phony filters, and

Squaring all pyramid,

I shoe-blacked bits of white.
Going global, then, I removed rug, and

overpowered by the itch to truly feel the land beneath my piggies,

I crowbarred flooring, too,

stripping made bed there, next

(as it no longer served)

but leaving dog slumbering at its foot well enough alone, since

my Pinocchio proboscis was hardly his fault, and

his bark was just so tiresome, and

when only the prerequisite pillow, and

sleeping mutt remained,

I pulled every last tooth I had

(disabling enameled deception)

to place these extractions under cushion at bed’s head

–whereon I now also lay—

whispering to the down

all that was up,

I drifted in


bled out,

dreaming of

a Truth Fairy

and whether

she exists.


%d bloggers like this: