Table of Contents


Fake Blonde News

The news that broke

T'was unintentional,

Surpassed the local

For shores international.

Anchor girl

With household name;

An inveterate,

Unabashed,

Eyebrow tweezer;

A look-a-like

Of the promo girl

For American-Style

Fridge and freezer;

Copper-toned, 

And brazillian waxed,

Teleprompter script relaxed;

A monotoned monologue;

Intonating similarly

To the words delivered weekly

On Saturday at synagogues;

Light pink pouty porno mouth;

Loudmouth megaphone

With megawatt grin;

Timed her nodding sympathetically;

Grieving real time pretend,

In girl-next-door Sunday suit;

Daughter to a farmhouse mother

Serving homemade oxtail soup.

They fingered me 

As one of those

Numbered with the rest of them;

Six O'clock,

And on the dot;

Tuned in to that one news station;

The only way to satisfy 

My undisguised infatuation.

I put away

Both learning times tables;

And vinyl spinning

On my turntables,

For a shiver down my spine,

By news I got,

That girl of mine.


Find In The Burial

Bags and chunks

Were left in the dungeons of San Leo,

Home of the ghosts 

Of twenty seven monks.

It took a vulgar yank 

To pull from the hypnotic stare

And achieve

The needed conciliatory clasp,

Reaching

Sober fact's

Farthest reaching concerns,

Breaking universal disagreement

With Michelangelo's unfriendly city.

Yes, 

Pity forced me 

To calculate 

The outrage of 21st century's 

Darkest cloud,

Blowing it past memory's dunes,

Past ancient fragrance,

Underneath 

The Chaldean's cold moon.

A stone there

Hid a ruby ring

Capable of capturing the confidence

Of those 

That met its gaze;

To settle the storms,

Those encroachers 

With thirst to mettle,

Of their remaining days.


First Night's Performance

A solemn itinerary was read 

With emphasis where needed

By the Ministry of Defiance 

To the attentive ears 

Of all in alliance.

The ballerina minions 

Lining the concertina stage

Flung melodies by the toes like

the flapping magic handkerchief

of Peter's Pan's inside pocket.

Sky born and fleeting, 

But all caught craftily

By the Wanderer's eye,

The merchants opened wide 

The veritable chest 

Full of hope's heaving breasts,

The locks giving way in the fingers

Looser than a rail man's cough

During the miserable fall months.

The course was obeyed,

As the family's horse would do

Coaxed with a handful of sugar cubes.

Any missteps managing their creep in 

were outshined and outweighed by

Professional slight of hand 

And sequined foot.

We kissed the spirit

As the curtain dropped

To signal the close 

Of that night's cheers

And clapping hands.

First Taste Of Freedom

It couldn't be too soon

That opportunity's sweet knock

Was heard

By my plying ear.

Fleeing the scoundrel's home

Was as glorious as found

In the romps

Of carefree gazelles.

My heels

Challenged their hoof's height, 

As I made haste

Through the neighborhood

That night.

When my destination 

Came in sight, 

I looked back once,

As a respectful gesture 

To a past 

With just a smattering of blessing.

A decision,

Then,

Was determined

To put an end to past's thinking

The moment my head returned forward

To my friend, 

My future's fair face.

At last I sat, 

Squaring off 

With my thief of innocence,

My current love interest,

The one who spelled trouble 

With a few well-played facial maneuvers.

Warm pints,

Coupled with ordinary sex,

Confirmed my first step

Into my new life 

Of intoxicating teenage independence:

A game I mean to win.