Hulu Buffers
I’m watching a show
When the dramatic pauses lengthen,
The paralytic tension will strengthen,
And then I know
My entire buffer is gone.
In order for the show to go on
I have to hit the space bar
While I stare at the bizarre
Expression of a face
Until the buffer is in place.
Penetrate Poetry
Every now and then
I pull out a paper and pen
to penetrate poetry,
To enter an inky realm that I couldn’t type,
one that renders readers ripe
on the tip of my pen.
Each of them getting ink done,
dipping into a full-storied sleeve
of characters who receive
direction from the flexed muscle,
the scraping hustle
of a pen
when I penetrate poetry.
Porch Morning in Steubie
Wow it’s cold out this morning.
I suppose I should have taken warning
From the cool rooms unwarming
and the breezes swarming
In from the outside.
Snooze
Nine minutes before
folklore dreams come crashing
with the day slashing away
the hopes of “I’ll make it happen,”
Dreams are delayed by the slappin’
of the lose button on my clock radio.
Forced Rhyme
Sometimes a string of rhymes is a poem
On other days, rhymes are lackluster lines of forced meaning
Weaning the joy out of story,
Trading for rhymed glory, spectacle.
The gimmick lasts for so long
Before we’re doing it wrong,
Choosing the sake of the gimmick
to mimic word choices
That trap our voices.
Bug Shadows
The Fluorescent Swirl,
Glass-canisterred light
Might be out of sight
But the shadows of bug’s indecision
Twirl in peripheral vision.
An Unbalancing Brain Freeze
I just ate an Ice cube from my OJ
Which made my head relay
It’s desire for its own contortion
Of a concentrated portion
Of my brain
Until the strain
Unfreezes and seizes
Balance again.
Gutter Mutter
The sound of the gutter will mutter
Over the sound of the rain
That hums in vain
To be more than a background
Drowned-out rain sound.
The Dandelion Fight
My lawn is a mix of triumphant battle battered dandelions
Beaten with weed killer, but they’re tryin’
To stand tall, even if half of them fall with a curved stem.
I thought defeat would come to them
But they stand ready for another blow
So I’ll fight with a mow.
The remaining poofs see a tragic
Disappearing under the blade.
But we both know, like magic,
They’ll grow where they’ve strayed.
Selling Fantasy
As if it wasn’t surreal enough,
electronic concrete
came to meet my feet
escalating me above
the strip of
desert waste
commercialized in the aftertaste
of Fantasy.
BonjourPoetry 