Bad Poems

18 09, 2016

To the Long Islander Waxing Poetic about a Fast Food Chicken Leg

By |2016-09-18T20:33:59+00:00September 18th, 2016|Bad Poems|0 Comments

Southerners take comfort Not in a liquor bottle filled with escape But in food that brings them back home. Collards and turnip greens and mustard greens, too. Fried taters and mashed and smothered with With sawmill gravy or red-eye if you’re brave. Okra, cream corn, tomatoes fried green Sliced onions, pickles and four types of peas. Pole beans, green beans,

15 09, 2016


By |2016-09-15T03:28:41+00:00September 15th, 2016|Bad Poems|0 Comments

We struck a match that lit a wick. A flame that we consumed in a moment stolen from forever. But now we are just shadows dancing on the cave wall You and I.

12 09, 2016


By |2016-09-12T03:43:01+00:00September 12th, 2016|Bad Poems|0 Comments

I shouldn’t sounds Like she’s declining The offer, starting with Her crisp bronzed tunic, To peel the skin away Layer by layer of scale, Past the fleshy leaves, Down to the wild heart, Crisp, sweet and tangy, And oh so oh

8 09, 2016


By |2016-09-08T03:28:12+00:00September 8th, 2016|Bad Poems|0 Comments

Hold still the heart you swore was mine And crack it open on its spine. Pretend it’s filled with only air And it’s broken beyond repair. For in your heart two lovers clash And on your lips love turns to ash.

5 09, 2016

Bird Lake Morning

By |2016-09-05T15:56:33+00:00September 5th, 2016|Bad Poems|0 Comments

How can it be Friday when yesterday was Sunday? How can I write a poem about a lake When what I want is to row into The middle of that lake and Let the current take the helm And float, float, float like Human driftwood to whatever Shore the current commands But I know I must make The current Must

5 09, 2016


By |2016-09-05T00:32:15+00:00September 5th, 2016|Bad Poems|0 Comments

The puppies are restless this morning, Wrestling and bouncing and whining, Hungry for the walk they can’t have. Hermina’s rain bands reached us Last night in the middle of REM sleep. My dreams played cymbals For the thunder that shook the windows, Shook Moose from his rest. Pillow in hand, I sat next to his crate, Singing the songs I

29 08, 2016


By |2016-08-29T03:30:57+00:00August 29th, 2016|Bad Poems|0 Comments

Honey, have you got the time? She said. He slid a pocket watch Next to her empty glass and said, Yeah, and the money, too. I love a good metaphor, She said. Hell, I’ll even love a bad one If it’s a slow night And he’s buying the drinks.