Sleep’s statistical clutters quicken
desiderata of schedules wanting—
hegemony from standings trumpeting
triumph and trophy consummating…
Poems are daemons to exorcized—
things without names, unthings named.
Poems lurk in primordial sea— the deathmute
Five Folded Fluno
What if my name was Marco Fluno?
What if I drank a flagon of ouzo?
What if I flew to the moon’s o’Juno?
Would you go with me then?
Extreme Ursine Unction
A stony eve at the Bedlam Ball,
An ursine scene entrancing,
As all about the charnel hall
The bears they were a dancing.
Would you eschew what a shoe might construe?
Does it sound from its sole, task with its tongue,
is there puppetry where its strings are strung?
Do its eyes cast evil, is its heel well-heeled,
my mother is dying...
alone all by herself.