Thursday, February 12, 2015

three stanzas of five lines: a poem

the state of poetry:
unknown to me,
unknown to thee.
i haven't read another poem since
two thousand three.

how do they break them up now?
do they attempt to rhyme?
yes, i must learn this somehow,
but just don't have the

old ships, no longer any use, are broken up in port.
poems are thoughts broken up, repurposed: chants, of a sort?
where every emphasis must justify itself in court?
weak metaphor and tortured rhyme, enough to make you snort.
but sometimes that's okay, because you're drunk.

Friday, January 9, 2015

ground slugs: a poem

slugs stay on the ground where the boots are
slow, brown, or goldfish gold, but slow
salt 'em, salt 'em, i don't care
crawling, walking, i don't care
slithering, slow
way down low
i don't care
about the slugs
they should stay on the ground where the boots are