Poems

Driving Past My Ringtone   

  Yes, my shadow was there.
  
  It was the one in the polka-dot tie and houndstooth steering-wheel.
  
  The sunglasses were its idea and were intended to be a stand-in for
  
  the rear-view mirror until the right radio jingle came along. But it never
  
  did. So I accept full responsibility for any losses that may have once
  
  been a full wallet. And I also admit that I barely noticed clouds in the
  
  stare or any unnatural colors that seemed inconsistent in our line of
  
  gaze. By I have to confess, neither one of us was ever aware of horns
  
  blazing when we missed our favorite ringtone and plowed into the
  
  store-front window in my congested bathroom.
 

 

  
  Harry Houdini On Holiday  

  In the poem version about the untied military boots
  war breaks out in a virtual car chase allowing
  vandals a bumper-sticker of green lights for miles
  before the night is lit-up by artillery fire.
  
  Two sacred mounds of prickly hats are blindfolded
  then forced to stand before the hangman's noose
  where scat looks like a lavish Hollywood movie where
  identity theft grows up to be urban blight's stage prop.
  
  The blindfolds don't care. Neither does bird flu. It brings
  a twig to the empty c-cup then brides porcupine quills
  to boycott any notice of amnesty, so long as those little
  metal weighs are still sown in buttons of window drapes.

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