Impatient

In memory of
all I've forgotten,
I swim through
the dark like

a half-demented
hitchhiker. A century
comforts its seasons,
each of which had

hoped to be the
reason life goes on.
Impatient rhymes
wait at the end

of each line,
trembling in anticipation.

West

A white parrot,
it is said, sleeps
in the color blue
and dreams the

wet dream of
a nearby lake.
This cannot be
confirmed, only

said.  That being
said, let us move
west to where
the wilderness is

and, lying down
in it, die.

Asleep

At the bottom
of the mirror's
pond a memory
sleeps in deep

liquid.  Looking
up, it sees itself
rising to the surface,
only to sink again.

It thinks it's a
ping pong ball
that's a pebble.
It senses that it

ought to remember
what it's unaware of.

The Parade Grounds

Love leads each
of us to the parade
grounds by a
different route.

One guy, for
instance, has a
toothpick in his
mouth, while another

appears not to be
concerned about anything.
My chance came
when she arrived

unexpectedly in a
dress she wasn't wearing.

Your Turn

Almost anything
is something a
poem can start
out with if the

poet wants it
to.  The poet is,
after all, in charge.
You would do

well to remember
that as you
open the book
and start reading.

Okay.  Now it's
your turn.

Scattered

Now that there are
more poets than
there are readers
of poetry, let the

book burning begin.
Franz Wright is
essentially right
about being wrong.

A poet's frown becomes
a reader's easy excuse
for going insane.  A
tree standing on

tiptoe scatters
the dawn.

Words

Time forces a smile
on each of us as we
await the embarrassing
click of the shutter.

I was as strong then
as I am wrong now.
I am older, yes, but
still bereft of wisdom's

comforting counsel.  I
juggle words I will
never have the good
sense to use in a

sentence that says
what I mean.