Posted in Poetry

A Least A Cup Of Bourbon And A Bevy Of Orange Zest In The Brine


“the buying or selling of ecclesiastical privileges, for example pardons or benefices.”

I imagine there’s a bit of light verse there somewhere. If only I were a poet. Which, I can safely testify that I’m not. But I’m quick to cop a plea to being guilty of two decades of word-slinging. Why else would I archive even the slightest of any poesy effort under the disclaimer of an “Eye Rhyme.”

Eye Rhyme

a similarity between words in spelling but not in pronunciation, e.g., love and move.

And now in mid-sixties senescence, still a cigarette in one hand, and a rocks glass of rot gut in the other, I shamelessly offer up any hoary notion that hovers, even momentarily, between consciousness and vacuity. So be it.


my creative flow
is just below
a buckle of
good intentions

starts gung-ho
that creative flow
peters out
in soft circumventions

my ruminative woe
trumps stimulative go
and chuckles at
native pretensions

my creative flow
is thusly below
a belt holding up
my conventions



Where did I put my
Where did I shelve my
Ditto the deftness and
along with knack and
know how.

But what I’ve really lost
is an interest…
in just about anything.

You know what?
The deal is
I’m becoming
an undocumented


Liquored up and quiet as a lawyered up Saturday night suspect… When some Sunday morning radio reformer is giving witness to the ways of the Devil..including/ the product placement possibilities of a public renunciation of my sins


Who is the patron saint of marketing I mutter then made instantly sober with white lighting realization my particular and growing demographic has a never-dying interest in the shelf life of simony.


The Little Lie Counts

I pretend to

with purpose

when actually
I’m yielding
to this new

a vague
this stumble bum
search for the
appropriate anachronism
that sums
this addled

the years add up
by subtraction
and my takeaway
concerning this
old man’s math

the balancing of a ledger
an equaling of accounts
to the numerous
previous and
erroneous proffers

“I forgot.”


I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.