Flip Flop Clackers

Flip flop clackers over hideous carpets
Patterns stitched together in the same factories
Where theater rugs are made pre stained
Bits of half chewed gum adhered to color schemes
Picasso wouldn’t dare, even in his worst wine sorted
Here trickling families squawk like migrating birds
Lumbering dullards of various sizes and excitements
Questing for parking spaces
And escalators
And empty fascinations

Easy Afternoon Monsoons

The red Chi, the black letters gold trimmed
snakes in a night market cage, slithering
smell of smoke and crowded stalls, old and new
astrologers and monks, slips of paper
sapphron spiderwebs entrapping bubble tea
aficionados, hurtling toward faith crises
the easy afternoon monsoons, fifty days of rain
the succulence of long spent afternoons plotting
clownish antics, bending palms banging typhoon drums
as stone lions with rigid expressions laugh
at the ever changing world, ridged roofs guarding
ancient bones, incense sticks and spinning wheels
the worst nightmares of a Jungian climax
the paradox of human imaginations,
of infinities and platitudes, of beyonds and underneaths
of Alice and her rabbit and monkey brains
serpents and jaguars and nibbling cognizance
self-recognition of kittens slowly licking paws.

Old Questions

Through the links, the postcard image
Humvees and new recruits guarding carnage,
the purple petaled liquor of spilling blood
our Molech’s sacrifice, our god of the dead
the trembling mountain of a law giver
glinting knife of a patriarch raised,
facing his test, not expecting redemption.

Girded for battle, Joshua and his horns
the lapping water of Gideon’s lamp bearers
Judith lofting Holofernes’ head, triumphant
as the camp’s deserters fled north and south
no Napoleon rising to mete out punishment
consequence for impenitent lovers, quarrels
with the lengths of the hours and days of creation.

All the old questions get asked again.
And again. And again.

Leave Them Elect

the private ruminations, studies
penciled scratchings
filled out in the charcoal
of private experimentations,
the curve of a rib
solar plexus,
the dimple beneath
the small of a woman’s back,
like legwork,
a travelogue,
from here to Liguria,
the plan for a battle avoided,
calls for trace denounced
Christmas crackers popped in celebration.

There was the dire contract,
unsigned, unwitnessed
lost apostle
to a tribe only found
in Herodotus or Narnia
monopod evangelist
selling the redemption of soda cans
the fizzy gesticulations
of Calvinistic football fans
certain their determinisms
will not leave them elect.

Wall of Grasping Fingers

Lattice work,
like a Gothic sanctuary
of crusted barnacles,
spittle dripping
from the gaping maw
of a hidden cave;
there, rabies frothing bats hang,
inverted stylites
these underworld ambassadors,
walls embedded with flecks of mica
reflecting artificial light.

Deep water stagnant,
wide-eyed creatures blinking
surface to confront unexpected immigrants,
empty echoes pinging,
a wall of grasping fingers guard the shore.

Fleeing Boyars

Old steel guitars, rusted and unstrung
tucked into the back of abandoned factories
dusty and forgotten, the carcasses of machinery
bone dry and pitiable-a matron spinning tales
of past romantic conquests before she donned the white.

In the fearful corners, the chiffon cobwebs
dangling egg sacks and nursery flies, a grim
Mother Goose anthology, by the heavy sagging rafters,
the avenues of barn swallows and rooks,
their nested angles herded by feathered castellans.

Red brick towers climbing, manager’s desks
overturned like 1917, yellowed pages chaotically
carpeting the wide beamed floor in imagined patterns,
in the eyes of trespassers a synchronicity, a message
left behind by the fleeing Boyars.


In a simple geometric, red on white
brick, free standing station, a way point
hither, beyond the scraping shadows
white swaying trees like carcasses,
dangling skeletons strung up, pasted
together in Papier Mâché, painfully
pinioned by some jokester, reproaching youth.

Between the rails, wind and salt stained
grass daubed by an itinerant artist
hired by a circus passing through, tiller
by trade with high aspiration,
perspiration drenching every bicycled
tread, fletching serious Farmen,
rubber footed, tip-toeing, craning.

Double Sided Main Street

Down a grey pebbled path
stepping over the chiffon of a thousand seedlings
sunlight brighter than Vermeer ever bottled
crisp green grass swaying in a negligent breeze
crusted puddles broken with bootprints
splayed over wide, ghostly evidence
of some hurried pedestrian.

Stubbled cigarettes, stamped
plastic candy wrapper pinched between
two dandelions and a shoe pressed viola
where the raceway garners occasional traffic
building abandoned, posted on offering
contact a nearby agent for inquiries
sign nearly as bent as the inside frames of
old car lifts, rusting from disuse.

The double sided main street, no town in sight
like every King’s Highway that never saw a golden head
or Naval Base cartooned in a desert basin
bled businesses with tax liens and despair.

Funeral Service

Accidental rock clod, a slap of clay
flung from muddy puddles, swerved
catching an ill fated puck blown wind
thump! into the face of an unready combatant;
purple spread like Caesar in Gaul seeking glory
hedging in a blackening eye, a hollow brigade
whispered prayers and words best forgotten
ample apologies and obfuscations, boot plods
criminally squelched over lumpy ground –
in the bunker, a conspiracy of ravens emerged
springs were sprung as phones were rung
and an ancient hearse choked to life,
ready for the funeral service.

Frog Snack

The desert drew a mirage, dripping paint
Pollock on a field, feet blistering
from caked in boots, toes peaking out
shouting some hallelujahs in chorus
with those angels he refused to hear;
I saw it, on that horizon, Eiffel tower rising
dust spinning in sudden winds, in the valley beyond
the sudden explosions, like apostolic Damascenes
shafts of light dispersing shadows under cottonwoods.
There were drifting sunflowers, drooping
heavy headed from the brilliant cascade, impressed
no doubt, by the foot sore traveler passing them by
shaggy haired, knee bitten hustler, two bit
player, pulling out of a planet dive, too late
skimming dirt like a mosquito in plastic bogs,
carelessly scooped up like a frog snack.

Long Drawn Cursive

Intercostal kiss, a crimson filigree
seeping through a pretender’s velvet doublet,
some speculative cousin, bastard relation
sheltered in foreign counsels, paper crown
sealed with diplomatic wax and speculation
the long drawn cursive of ancient rivals.

Vandal Seats

The skeletons
of burnt out hatchbacks
skinned, in tatters,
melting in a summer sun
the incendiary capacity
of criminal mechanics
looting after a
modern city’s walls are breached
the Vandals racing
to take seats in the Forum
while the Senate debates
the higher ideals of Republics.

Somewhere in a hinterland
promises were delivered unsealed.
Mulling pacification seems preferable
with interceding mountain ranges.

Silver Thread

My fiberglass personality, bondo life
filling in the gaps with literary diversion
under soft ultraviolet lamps to cure
a vampire’s sweet tooth, somber dissatisfaction
with the general press, the heart felt peddler
Copenhagen shifting to a three piece
jazz fusion band, reduced to elevator antics;
in the middle of embracing lovers, Rodin
entwined arms picked from stony faces
a false kiss, a trope, a hazel wand
casting spells and aspersions over genuinely held beliefs,
the waterfall of ignored emotions a caterwaul
wheezed from the spent reserves of Chernobyl
failing to prevent overload, a sinister design flaw
to lee, to star, brook no river’s banks
the silver thread tracing borders over landscapes.

There in Tethered Fields

There in tethered fields with damask foliage
cemented cannons rested over fields of graves
each shaded grove a mausoleum,
ghosts yearning for the rise of fallen flags.

Well I’m stuck on this one. Usually I can get myself unstuck but I’d like to take this as an opportunity to try to engage here, which is sometimes very difficult. If anyone finds this useful as a writing prompt, I’d love to see where you take this simple quatrain. Send me a link or a comment if you find my missing inspiration and have a nice Thursday.


Seaside epidictic
an apothecary shouting the virtues
of epicurean cremes and lotions
to an uninterested audience
of beached turtles.

Mistook a driftwood line
set there by recent storm
for boardwalks sconced
with beach towel purloiners
and tinkers selling other nonsensicals.

Might be some shipwrecked goods
for treasure seekers to find.

Broken Coppice Crowns

Some Grimm mutilation
a wicked daughter’s half hewed foot
burned to cinders behind ornately framed
fireplaces filled
with broken coppice crowns
like lottery tickets
or words that end with q –
when matrimony’s favors japed
did wooden toes replace
or beggar’s thrones capsize
their ill timed improvisation?
Perhaps scene exeunt restored
half-feet and wits,
in some eucathartic plot twist.