Poetry For Strangers: Pedantic

what is a metaphor

what is a metaphor said the doctor to the ghoul
epiphanies wailed the voices from the tenebrous pool

the ampersand at the end of the road promised longer days
for six thalers more you get the nightingales calloo callays

the hymn of the orange pickers carried on the air
just like the scene from that book not by voltaire

the imbroglio over kuxen roiled through the winter
the duchess of cornwall trembled at its center

pedantic picaroons crashed the folkmoot with songs of moly
itll turn you into beauties or javelinas foul and most lowly

borrowing against the inflated currency of the dastardly raven
florences numismatists pulled their beards harried and graven

i think i died in the battle at antietam but cant be sure
my headstone the rifleman grumbled is covered in cockleburr

in fingals cave the arabesk was drowned out by the seas howl
but the moonbow brightened the pirate orchestral

the monkey war history tells of the epic conflagaration
twixt the baboons and the rhesus tribes solemn nation

in the djemila archway renegade drummers met the gloaming
banging out the rhythm of civilizations reckless roaming

For more, visit Poetry for Strangers: Pedantic


Poetry for Strangers: Traveler

the traveler chronicles, vol. 1
my sister was an astrophysicist
i never even knew what that meant
one icy march morning we sat
under the pine trees by the lake before dawn
staring at cold stars
and she told me she was a traveler
she said
we’ve known for a long time we live in a
meaning there is an infinite number of parallel universes
infinite really means infinite
there’s a universe in which gravity is visible
there’s a universe in which you have mom’s black hair
there’s a universe where bacon tastes like broccoli
a universe in which jesus was a dancing lizard
if you can imagine it
it’s true somewhere in one of those other universes
in this way
all poetry is true
there’s a universe in which april is the cruelest month
i’ve built a portal she said her opaline eyes
drifting to the forest edge
here let me show you how it works
she was dead two weeks later

i have the portal now

For more, visit Poetry for Strangers: Traveler

Poetry for Strangers: Fanciful

floating houses

i saw a movie last night it made no sense
a bungalow house like the one you lived in in college
was swept away by a flood of righteous fanciful wind
and on a sea of chaotic air up there
were other houses
in one shakespeare and barbara streisand were stuck in a sitcom
they were having a dinner party for her boss and he had to pretend he was jewish for some reason
in another house malcolm gladwell stood in the stainless steel kitchen
swirling the merlot in his glass and said the world
could be divided into either hufflepuffs or gumdrops
everyone just nodded thoughtfully
i was outraged on your behalf
in another house early american rock music pounded from the windows and doors
long tall sally quaking the rafters
but the house was empty except an altar of speakers
pouring out the ecumenical truth of mystery train
i wondered if this was supposed to be the house of the rising sun but then i thought i was trying to be clever
about this time the audience was thinking oh boy another house what is it this time
buster keaton playing tennis with charlie chaplin
charlie mugging after whiffing the ball
buster stonefaced and holding his racket like a rifle
then charlie going after the ball with a baseball bat
buster smashed his own racket over his head
the next house at first seemed it was just a giant indoor pool with a bonsai tree
on a rock in the middle calm quiet serene
but the water surface was musical like a piano
so the breeze across the top of the water sounded like chopin being played by an angry drunk
in the last house the trial of joan of arc was being reenacted by talking cats
i wouldn’t see the movie again but when I got home my own house felt otherworldly like a new planet in which all my stuff
this painting of buddha on a stegosaurus
this taxidermied gopher in a boxer’s stance
the noodle hat
seemed outlandish somehow

For more, visit Poetry for Strangers: Fanciful

Poetry for Strangers: Lovingly

three lapsed saints stood by the road
each had green eyes

the red bird sang on the branch
steel spears shook by the black hill

church ale boils in the mouth
grass sways in the gray wind

dark fell over the closed throne
what is here is time lost

what is lost is to be here
and is lovingly killed

the search is a bright pain
the search has no end

For more, go to Poetry for Strangers: Lovingly