Volume 8 Issue 4

The Restaurant

“Hey, um!”
“Hey, excuse me!”

The waitress turned on one leg, her elbow on her hip, coffee pot in hand.

“Yeah, hun?” she responded.
“Why do you say that?”
Her face contorted into a question mark.
“What you called me just now,” he fired off, “and once before that.”
She was half waiting for a joke. “What do you mean?”
“I just can’t take it anymore! Have you ever thought that the people you call hun maybe don’t like being called hun?”

The Drum of Rhyme

A fear to assert words in lines
That aren’t guided by the Drum of Rhyme
Prevents my pen from flowing free—
Producing reams for all to see.

Verses marching row by row,
Metered missiles sure in tow.
What wretched works! All deafened by
The unrelenting Drum of Rhyme.

In dreams above the horde I climb
And shout over the Drum of Rhyme:
“Drop your arms and wander wide,
Forget decorum—improvise!”

Awake I find the ranks unstirred,
Still plowing onwards as a herd.
My pen amongst them prints in time;
I too, march to the Drum of Rhyme.


For X

I was mercurial, and growing
lion vertebrae.

In the calloused silver of morning,
I’d pry the german summer

from its velvet coffer, offer it
the chemistry of a wingspan

when it tastes smoke. You were lodged
like a tooth in its fish fat.

Still, you arrived with water
chestnuts for eyes and a

cichlid lipped mouth
dilated for wanting.

These were the wet & wayward
beginnings, darkening where we let them.

Hesperus, the evening star,
once caught me peeling the skin

of an aspen and crawling inside,
where you sucked the bloodsap

from my wood. I unhorsed the horse
and unmooned the moon

licking the salt from your hooves.