As Arcturus sinks into the west
and Vega winks as if in jest
and Cygnus floats on the filmy milk
     of the Galaxy as slow
and stately as an ocean liner
overlooked by Ursa Minor,
as Lyra strums a song of silk
     joined by Scorpio,

who shakes his tail in a raucous rattle,
while Hercules sings songs of battle,
three figures in the moonless night
     meander by the cedar
across ten billion blades of grass
with beads of dew as bright as brass,
lost beneath the cosmic light—

Sunday, an overarching day both raw edge conduit and
coarse grain shelter for that soul in torment,
it’s when psyches plagued by doubt face those 
sudden twists and turns we call bizarre,
thoughts of the macabre and their covert operation may
intrude into our leisure zone as skin rash nettle hazard.
we’re there latent paranormal hidden hands as I drew 
closer to a roadside curb whose mortar filling had been 
shrivelled due to timeline passage?


One can be blind to seismic  portent, atmospheric tension’s

a willing experimental subject
to escape untenable married life.

Upon falling into a deep slumber,
the following subconscious
somnambulant scenario arose
allowing, enabling, and providing
temporary alleviation from
outa harried married state. 
  
Out of a tendency to be impetuous,
and oblivious to danger,
I voluntarily let myself get abducted
by this gruesome green
Geico looking alien ghoul.

Any resemblance between the following
piece meal description being kidnapped
by an alien (from another

This poem is dedicated to Alina Karimova, who was born with severely deformed legs and five fingers missing. Alina loves to draw mermaids and believes her fingers will eventually grow out.

Although I am only four years old,
they say that I have an old soul.
I must have been born long, long ago,
here, where the eerie mountains glow
at night, in the Urals.

A madman named Geiger has cursed these slopes;
now, shut in at night, the emphatic ticking
fills us with dread.
(Still, my momma hopes
that I will soon walk with my new legs.)

Every third year, dad
puts on a pair
Of red converse and
Dances around the house.

He insists
We go out for lunch.
A dozen oysters each.
A bushel of beer.

We rush to the ice cream store
And just this (these) once(s),
He lets mom play music in the car.

He’s had the same converse since 1985.

Dry rotted to yellow
In the cobwebbed and
Cedared corners of his closet,
Otherwise lined with starched
Shirts, sacred against my cheek
In a hug. A sharp pleat and a favorite pen.

Boyhood, dead on the vine.

tonight October  25th, 2022
terrifically summarily requoting

poetic outdated iteration,
I share the following lines
echoing in the valley
of love and delight.
courtesy 20/20 hindsight
October twenty fifth
two thousand and twenty two
admirable, corrigible, fallible,
and intelligible light

hearted fella (amazingly
gracefully aging
baby boomer) usually polite
doth not trend toward
superficial nor trite,
neither can yours truly
said to abide by beliefs, ethos
ideologies, et cetera notions characterized

Azure blue sky weeps in rent glacial torrents,
iridescent earth orb sun trap hearth of sympathy,
dark red cloud airborne pristine tide’s indignant murmur,
toxic deluge drenches mudbank plot toilers whine,
thunderstruck I gape at shattered rock erosion

Edge of seat terra firma species red  alert bluster,
grim altitude apocalypse an amber moon  blight,
rampant drought pockmark visual scar this screen plague,
vapour trail from heavens lachrymose duct,
alarm bells doleful peal across a barren ground once green