Red Water

Gill fins thrust

Thrashing outward

The fish flipped

Trying to remove the lake


Knife up through

Red water

The organs

The under flesh

Dipping the whole fish

Following the gills

Trails into the lake


Into the chest

Gills stood open

Gently jostling the water

Floating beers

Could breathe

The red inside

Of one small stiff trout

Follow my Wishes

I would like you to follow my wishes.

Please do not throw the fishes.

I do not want them in the dishes.

I am washing the dishes to impress the duke.

If they taste like fishes, he is going to puke.

Please follow my wishes. Please, please! Don’t be a mook.

I’ll follow your wishes.

I won’t throw the fishes.

So go wash the dishes.

And go impress the duke.

You make me wanna puke.

And who, THE HELL, are you callin’ a mook?

You stupid mook!

What, the hell, is your problem anyway?

September Poem 1: Burning in Effigy

The next contestant, who knows? When the truth

Circling the fishing boat like angry seagulls cries out

Of the rigging of the game. Too much. I’m

Slappin’ yo’ mama’s grass skirt like the fish

Monger that gives heads up when tossing fish

From one to another. Cry out there’s a

Fish aimed at your head. The hobbling of your

Thoughts somewhere, nowhere. Like the teardrops from

My single eye and everywhere around.

Kicking risers with the CPU fan’s

Buzz. The silent background buzz that without

Which causes mobs to run in and jump on

Donald Trump burning in effigy of

George W. Bush. The Running Man won.

August Poem 41: Advice Before You Get Published

When you are too cutting edge and you don’t

Know you are housing morality. Smear

In enough fish smut to flavor the press,

Before you are published and gone. Counter

The pleasures of the day. Float. Nothing to

Show the white line up from the rock strewn for

The red and blue fauxhawked rebel run dream.

Man as mesquite. His six pound soul. Flavor

Your enemies, flesh, and influence as your sin.

As neighbors of many science fiction

Religions. Boys step away from dinner.

The table. The dangerous aftertaste.

This notion to be with a mouthful of

Thought not befitting a hungry poet.