Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Two word salad poems...


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,


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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