the aforementioned poetry:

Hole in the Wall

A speck with depth
just a minor hiccup
on the smooth surface of institution.
A fissure of change trapped
within a cinder block prison.

Walls have to breathe too—
inhaling carbon dioxide thoughts
moist with scraps of textbook regurgitation.

If the school was a ship
our education would sink;
drown
one drip
at
a
time.




Edward Hopper Hotel Room Ekphrasis
(form was lost in online translation, sorry)

broccoli chair,
cherry dresser,
banana walls,
asparagus carpet

sheets

like the meat
of a coconut
freshly
crac ked
dri
p
p
i
n
g
with
milk.



International Terminal

His knuckles drain
pale and drip
with nervous response
to the reverberation of combat
boots trudging across
a crisp linoleum desert
scattered with camouflaged
tumble-weed bags.
Thirsty wives and dessicated mothers
muster cheek-to-cheek
to drink in the last
drops of rain




Presidential Vacation Pantoum

How do you live
in a yacht on the lake,
playing with toys
while the country suffers?

In a yacht on the lake
you govern the world
while the country suffers
and others fight your war.

You govern the world
and destroy the country.
Others fight your war
and they’re still fighting.

Destroy the country.
The children are soldiers
and they’re still fighting
a useless war.

The children are soldiers,
but you don’t care.
A useless war
is money in your pocket.

You don’t care
that cities are burning
money in your pocket
as people die.

Cities are burning
how do you live
as people die?
Play with your toys.



Some Poems Become Baggage

Some concepts bog down the mind
and thwart thoughts
from following their instinct
like the scent of cheese to the end of a maze.
To recuperate,
some stanzas must be hemmed
with scratches and eraser smudges.

Some lines make better

space

than Erector-set words protected by Lojack.

Some words might
sound good
and look pretty

but encumber the moment
like a sopping sponge.



Maryland Avenue

The parking meter flashes green, and mounds
of fresh reflection flank the sides, standing
like sentinels to an invaded door
deprived of dignity; its shattered window
destroyed by selfishness. The seat is left
exposed to wind, or rain, or prying eyes
with sticky, prying hands. A lump of grey
hoodie entraps the seat and pleads: “I’m still
in class. I still believe my car is safe.”
But on the center console, chiseled out
of murky travel dust, a palm-sized
rectangle draws the borders of the place
where music used to live. Remaining is
a tangled, white, electric artery.




Coach

Primped for market,
embroidered, branded, and buckled
bovine pose on glass pedestals
surrounded by mirrors.

Patched with pieces of snake
or zebra or snow leopard,
each cut of veal
tastes of exotic fashion.

Skirted ladies laced in gold
admire hides of dyed
pink or baby blue suede
sows with silver stitching.

Mint or white or bright red
patent leather doesn’t squeal
when tucked beneath a cashmere’d arm
and stuffed with money.