September Poem 45: Loosen Your Tie, Mr. President

3 a.m. Twitter rantings. The frequent

Bouts of spirit writing. Fingers pecking

Like a field full of hens rushing in on

A computer keyboard in the midst of

A falling handful of feed. The morning

Covfefe and the nicknames like red neck-

Ties pulled so tight. Raining down fire and

Fury like rocket man. Like you’ve never

Seen. Like the storm’s urge of goiter flowing

Over his weak chin. And the circular

Purse of lips like a hanged man grasping for

One last breath of air. Fighting to hold on

To purpled tongue thrusting from rush of blood.

A half waking dream holding to something.





September Poem 44: Kraven the Hunter

When was the last time that you heard from him?

Can you believe you are still mad? All this

From a simple two lines of text. It had

Been so long, yet you allowed yourself to

Blaze. To spark the old man’s breath that caused the

Long ash to fall. Because it’s better, they

Say. Famously so. The memories. They

Crumble as you cut. The Fries. I’m sure he

Would have treated you. He realized that you

Were married with faith in foods like the French.

The cool. The air conditioner people.

Cut the people. Enjoy the line digging

The channels for wires to atone for

What he’s done. Would you give his redemption?




September Poem 43: Volunteer Day at the Old Folks Home

This is the beauty supply kit. And when

The ladies get here, boy howdy, are you

Gonna pull. Pull out a set of tweezers.

Pull out the stray hairs of all the crones in

Here. The wrinkled lips of Aunt Matilda

With that misshapen mole and the color

That bleeds out from black to purple to red.

The one that always has curly black hairs

Growing out of the middle of it are

Nothing compared to the five hairs from old

Ginny’s bulging goiter full with layers

Of jiggling fat and. The smell. Oh, the

Smell. The mothballs and the White Diamonds of

Old age. Oh, who could stand the old ladies?

September Poem 42: The Refugee Camp

He dipped the water from the well center

Of the camp. The water from the dipper

Flowed out and over the land and into

Refugee camp, up the lanes, and onto

The dirt floors. The quick smash and blood starting

Over. It flowed through washing out home and

Business and fortune. Washing out family

And community. Leaving only the

Hard greatness of knuckles. And the ankle

Deep mud in the streets. The thick mud sucking

At your shoes. The mud that never really

Washes away. The mud that stains your soul. And

The numbing wet of being forgotten.

The wet of no why or when or how long.

September Poem 41: Gundam: A Series of Cinquains


Detective to

The sleek enamel and

Curves of sheeted steel waking the




Detective to

The sleek enamel and

Curves of sheeted steel waking Des-




Detective to

The sleek enamel and

Destruction in large thumping steps.




Detective to

The mountainside. The glint

Of steel black and red under stone.




Bringing to life

The beast of a thousand

Years. Unmanned awakening




September Poem 40: 3 Cinquains on the Subject of Religion

Speaking in Tongues



Communion with

The spirit. He was a

Knock at the door. Removed.






Mind reading and

Human understanding

To the completion of his will

For naught.


The Exorcist



Insisted on

Bringing a gun in case

God had a brother hiding blind




September Poem 39: Ghazal for Trump

Both he and Mrs. Universe were in porns.

They loved their porns. It was a big problem

When Trump paid his taxes.


It made all the papers and

Should have been great for business

When Trump paid his taxes.


His accountant had misunderstood a joke. The Trump

Has the best deadpan… don’t know who said it, but it was said

When Trump paid his taxes.


He was just being stupid because

Not paying taxes makes you smart

When Trump paid his taxes.


He died a

Little inside

When Trump paid his taxes.


He was still

Just a punchline

When Trump paid his taxes.


Who the hell am I kidding?

He never paid his taxes

When Trump paid his taxes.