Content Categorized ‘Poetry’

Some Say

When I look at him and feel under my ribs a Sukhoi T-50 performing a Pugachev’s Cobra no longer as an evasive maneuver but for the thrilling thrust-vector stomach plunge . . .


The orange-and-brown-on-light-olive ottoman beside the truck on the side of the road next to the gas station out on the mesa is apparently for sale. Pathetic, no, but funny, and funnier still when we stop to buy it for five dollars, 


When the last rifle-shots of the season ring out across the river—swollen thick with rain and mud, moving forward as everything must—

Cold Comfort to Doom

No crops to sow. No shocks. No cobs, no corn’s down floss. No cock’s crow. No storms to grow. No cool to morn. No blood to spot; no flocks of cotton bolls to lop. No flocks. . .