Application For Poseur's Certificate

1.
There's no roses to turn to today.
The clouds tuck the earth into genocidal winter,
spilling the bloody debris of the petals.

The sky donates oceans.
The Earth chases Mars and Venus
in a steeplechase around the Heavens,

trying to spin home to Summer.
Back come the things you'd like to forget,
The only things you can remember;

The stillborn ideas and phantom emotions.
You have to make it up as you go.
It flashes. It's gone.

Every book becomes a self-help book called
How to Correctly Think About Yourself
and Others: A Self-Help Anthology.

Shorthand essays and assays indicting
and implicating the Universe in various
crimes against Humanity. Also, Humanity's crimes

against the Universe, namely, The Jonas Brothers,
high on purity. It's not CO2,
it's Rush Limbaugh's flatulent mouth.

The pen IS the sword.
Ask all the members of the Pen 15 club
currently occupying Capitol Hill.


2.
She sits on the trapeze eating lunch
above the Williamsburg Bridge
in a clever marketing scheme tangling love

in the suspension cables.
She inspires me to find skies in your eyes.
Give me binoculars.

Give me the right eyes to dig
into your landfill heart. Kindle me.
Kindle my candle, you little candy cane.

Morose prose poseurs pose
on tiptoes in the primrose promise
of prose repose among the roses.

Not far away, she inspires private Halifax
consulting firms to stimulate and develop
new technologies in beardmaking.

Uninspired, the soggy, soaked Hollywood poet
listens to another blabbermouth talking
faster than the speed of shit,

whose aspiration is to think
himself into new products, and to breath
the fresh air of the megabyte pixels.

His stanza lands nowhere near the solar plexus
as Hulksmash tomorrow into leaves.
Blabbermouth says everybody who ever tried to be

Milton Berle has failed, especially Rupert Pupkin
telling jokes to a basement full of
cardboard heads, but the Gingerbread people

with whipped cream lips and ovenbaked skin,
lying flat as cardboard on the tin-sheet,
are rising.


3.
The Walden Wren
at Thwaldinwen
asks, The Wuhl dinned when?
to the walled-in wind
but the wall didn't win.

It takes a lot of work
to be this boring.


4.
Jane, I still think about you.

Burn me gently, little one,
Burn me gently, like the sun.
Look on me softly, like the stars.

You've wished for me, admit it.
You've wished for me
like I've wished for you.