Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Two word salad poems...

Rimshot

in the smoky club:
the singer sways at the mike
her off-the-shoulder dress clinging to her body
like hazel groves to the flanks of the Himalayas.
No theorem could encompass those curves,
bada-bing!

Leakage

We spend the summer caulking windows
and still every night
water drips inside our walls.

The bungalow uproots itself
motor-home racketing down a flooded freeway
or deep-running submarine stalked by

the indelicate menaces of every urban life
and the subtle leakages
of inevitable failure.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

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