Sparring suits, dress for success ties in highly researched color schemes

jockey for position, their bumble-shuffle, slip ‘n slide warehouse of prefab ideas,

rehashed for our viewing amusement.

It’s the already dead, trite and spew, flag me down moments

poorly disguised as having teeth for any meal

other than years of limo rides and cigar smoke backrooms

to further carve up the world into golf course size chunks.

Good places for more deals.

You fill out these dancing pixels, the scene behind the scene, seen by all and no one.

What is real, what is fabrication? What is wise, what is insulation?

Promises, like hearts, are made to be broken –

forged in the heat of passions lost, loves unrequited, dreams dashed.

* * *

Still there lives “the dearest freshness deep down things” if Hopkins has his way.

I’m with him.

Satisfied am I with the twisting melodies of yesterday’s yearning?

Driven am I to bedeck my mind in frivolities of yesterday’s learning?

Poking holes in theories ill-suited to soulish life

but still beholding too near my swollen strife.

* * *

Come what may, then, bestir what’s left of daytime’s faith

and mix it up and blend it till sweet to the taste.

Whirl these dervishing bedevilments and find the pearls made sand,

and make them pearls again – in heart, less than in hand.

* * *

Make the numbers match the math when teasing out the will

to sit, to silence all, the tongue, the words, and still

endure with me these acrid hours like waiting for the train

of hopeful dreaming coming soon, once more to love again.

Marvel at the cost of such pedantry,

succumb to the vagaries of baubledom, hoofery, and chicane glaminosity.

The suit fits well, the shoes reveal the glib and jabber of your craft.

In your pocket you finger loose change,

rubbed together like shuffle and jump bumper cars.

See the shine he says.

Looks good on you, he says.

One last gander, he says, take it for a spin.

You check out the merchandise while he checks out yours

and, together, you strike the deal to deal the strike.

Inside it smells like an Alberta forest with a hint of cheap cologne.

Something doesn’t feel right, he switches feet too often,

hasn’t looked you in the eye, yet,

and talks faster than you can type.

But something about this impish clown ghetto pulls one hand to sign,

the other to wipe the sweat from your anxious brow.

This parade of top-down, convertible politics

sits in your gut like so much bad stew.

Need and want swap places and you sigh…

But in the end, your satisfaction is guaranteed.

After all, the payments won’t kill you,

but the possessions might.

 

Winking past benighted minions

still and soft, she glides away.

Severed light pushed off her pinions,

for she had nothing left to say.

***

Dark her bosom, darker forming,

full of starry, whiteling lights;

perched atop the scalp of morning,

waits for courage to ignite.

***

Now to find the peace so wanting,

till we are awake again,

sleep bejewels our hearts unflaunting,

send us now thy rest, our friend.

Gubernatorial

Just as we were making way

the circus came to town.

We began to hope,

but had to stand

in a booth;

and truth

fled.

***

Penmanship

The scratch of ink on paper

still thrills a writer’s heart.

Her quill skips and weaves,

darting hither,

following

her heart’s

end.

***

Cheese

Good, like sunny afternoons,

and flowers in a field,

aged milk matures

to bring a taste

of heaven,

ripe and

old.

***

Checkers

Red and black go dancing past,

old friends still sitting there

well past dinner time.

“King me” he says.

“That’s not fair!

You won

last.”

***

Stilettos

Calves as tight as trampolines,

she totters high above

we humble mortals.

Forcing a smile,

she winces

and looks

down.