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The Title of this post makes a big fat lie of the first poem in this list/ collection. Poets when poemin’ care little for larger truths that might conflict with the tighter tone of that toe tapping, finger snapping, brushes on snare drum verisimilitude that seems to rhythmically rhyme with fool, cool, and societal stool pigeons-all; and do so simultaneously.

Ah shucks for all that.

And that last poem in this grouping is the one, when done, schooled and then fooled me into believing p0eting could be both mystical and mundane, and serious to the point of celebrating all that’s severely silly.

Another shucks.

Those poems in between…face it…the middle of the canon never sees the light of day. That’s the dark side of having a body of “work.”

As for the audio. Alan Jackson and Gary McFarland in the same mix, is sorta mind blowing.

Poems In Tabs Below


I fret when I feel
the verse too rehearsed
the line too on time
the abstract too exact—
or an interior rhyme too
refined, sublime, or—
one trick tony

I pony up to run
on the rail—then
afraid to fail, I move wide
to be sure to obscure
the finish line- that
Winner’s Circle of Hell—
and the subsequent pell-mell
descent— to dissent the
matter, of my canon

NaPoWriMo April 2020.

Click Bait Gate!

I once thought in paragraphs
admittedly in the occasional italics
but the script was declarative
informed by personal improvisation
of principals particular to upbringing
and upkeep

I’d peep about politics
I’d chirp about culture
I’d high mind the American eagle
I’d lowbrow the downmarket
I’d play philistine to the guillotine
on the chopping block of the American
Dream and scream at the schemes of anti-
pluralist and revanchist seeking requiem
for the souls of their Lost Cause

That was then

When debate was the gate behind which
facts were marshaled,
arrested by agreed upon warrant,
attested to by all sides

then the jailbreak

the trick of the click
the moment of the meme
trolls on a roll
bots on a bounty
thumbs up thumbs down
a toggle on the scale


All Hail
Social Media

—day 3 2018 NaPoWriMo


Line by line
to pronounce and parse…

Yes, but.
I read not, the poem,
I overhear the poet

a colloquy of an unconscious conspiracy,
I suspect…
This semi-scripted eavesdrop

a listen in,
to a well routed happenstance,

Before I Was 38

Sunday night is sure to feel uncertain
That is

an opening line behind the curtain
Suggesting what follows is staged, a wager


like the over/under…in the number of seconds,
In the length of a fading superstar’s encore


anti-ante proposition bet about how the booze
In the dressing room keeps getting younger, yet

That swill is a thrill that quenches, even after leaving
the audience thirsty, perversely
pour after pour
after pour


I should start
with a prissy poem
or a hissy fit
or face the fact
that woke words trend
and to that end
privilege this word
over your parlance
and beg pardon

because to
barter the difference
is to dicker
with a glossary
which makes grievance,
yours and mine, maybe similar
but not synonymous, so, as no signature
feels selfsame, we resort to type:

NaPoWriMo …2018


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

are we having fun yet?
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