Speak, always.

I want to speak-
Have always had the urge to speak-
Learned the rhythms, the motions to mutter.

Delved for words, luxuriant syllables,
Through verdant hills and daunting chasms,
Sunshine weeping through knotted texts,
Plucked out the fruit of knowledge;
Bitten through, bitter throughout, and abandoned.

There is simplicity, to speak
In words that all of man may know, to speak
In words that all of nature has known, to speak
In one tone known to all, to speak
As the jay sings to the skies, to speak
As the violin cries to the crowd, to speak
As the trees creak in the winter storm, to speak
As the lion declares his strength, to speak
As the castaway drifts from himself, to speak.

I want to speak-
Though I have nothing to say.

Fragments – Brief Poems


“Where are we going?” She asked
“Hell, eventually.”
And we laughed.


Life is driving down a long highway,
Where every twenty minutes
He passes a cross.


An eye for an eye leaves you intact,
As long as you don’t take any eyes.


The town was saved!
The damsel married the hero!
Then they slowly grew apart,
(Their love was tied to the quest, after all)
And they divorced on his thirtieth birthday.

He fell back in love with a whiskey bottle.
They’re very happy together.


He was not a perfect man,
But he had a perfect car
And that’s close enough, sometimes.


This is to see how well you can lie,
How frequently you can lie,
And how convincing your lies are.
Truthful answers will result in dismissal.



The person whose writing is the most like ours

Will be awarded fabulous prizes

And allowed to pick someone similar

For next year’s contest.


Don’t ask how the sausage, regulatory policy,
Sister, Brand-name clothing, universe,
Veal, scripture, lipstick, carbonated drink,
Brother, favorite song, Santa Claus,
Rocky Mountain Oyster, or diamond ring
Is made.


Now, I’m okay with gay guys,
But I wouldn’t want one dating my daughter.


I saw a red fox in far-flung fields,
I tried to get close to it
But it called my Aunt Esther ugly.


First, five syllables
Second, seven syllables
Wait, something has gone horribly wrong here.


Happy National Poetry Month, everyone.

She Was Like a Simile

She was very much like the moon
In the way that she was locked in a synchronous rotation with the Earth
And how her face was speckled with meteorite impact craters
And I saw a picture of two men on her.

She was very much like a storm,
She electrocuted me.

She was very much like the sun:
Extremely hot,
With a continuous fission reaction exploding in her core
nd a body composed largely of superheated plasma –
Plus something about how she can light up a room
Before incinerating it with the fury of a G-type main sequence star.

She was very much like a simile,
Every writer mused on her
Without ever really knowing who she was.