Poem 63

Urn dimes burned around their eisenhower edges
And will not register with the vending machine eye.
Grain alcohol if snakes are reproaching.

My ears popped inflight despite the chewing gum ward.
I make no Freud slips that could tip the dark side balance.

As we coaster out of the mouth of ahab I am reminded of
How the whale hunts the hunter, and without fail, finds its krill.
Now the ship wanes in the mains, loses train of thought
flounders in the doldrum wine glass menagerie.
We are all out of vitamin See.

But wait, I’ve just remembered,
these stanzas are made of minor lines,
and urn dimes can never be returned.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s