Attempting to write prose
Is like catching Carroll’s snark-
It’s an elusive little beast
Though Erwin may call it a beauty
Like he does with alligators-
We writers know better
Prose is the hardest beast to tackle.
Are we just poets because we are cowards?
I wonder.
It’s just as well-
The tacky khaki shorts one wears on safaris
Don’t look good on me anyways.
Here there, little man
Watcha doin here
On the dusty roads where
Pick ups and bajos
Are king?
Take back your Armani suit-
It don’t mean nothing here.
===
She sits, dreaming of places yet to be
Paris, Mali, Verona, Madrid.
Perfectly oblivious to the fact
That the sun is shining on
Her too-young face
And the brick before her
That was hand carved.
====
White dust bunnies descend
Through the sunlight,
Dodging between the brackets
Of a white window blind.
This is the only kind of
Snow you’ll see in Florida,
I whisper to myself
As I stare at the negative space
Between me and the clothes you threw on the floor.
====
The wine dark sea
Envelopes you, Penelope.
Your sweat drenched back
Gathers grains of sand
And they become your diamonds.
Ithaca cries for you, lady,
You half window,
Un accepting of suitors.
“Do you not understand,” they say
“That your husband is gone?”
You have no reason for diamonds.
You deny all suitors,
Content with laying yourself into the sea,
Whispering his name into the wind.
