The Evisceration of a Mallard Duck

I could not condone,
Appealing constituents
In droves,
Performing miracles on the steps to the Capitol.

An unlikely Bisquick dream,
Incoherent as it may seem,
The fluff of a white rabbit,
Gone down into the underworld.

I’ve had time to process
The latency of time,
In droves,
Something we had never planned to do.

Now that the occupation
Has succeeded,
I need rest.


Mists of Narnia

Columbus touched me,
Inappropriately between my legs;
And I cast my crown

Kitten’s cry,
Beneath a deathly Sky,

One ovulation,
Then another;
This cyclic mishap,
Cradling kingdom’s cum.

The birthed star
Upon the feet of fishermen,

And we heed the words,
Spoken in the silence
Of our sleep.

Observations of the Isolationists

Performance enhanced bibliographies,
Two-stepped caricatures of time,
The ironies of passersby.

I left my right hand,
Buried in the sand,

Could not release
The trumpet blast,
Or choreographed
Eschatological riff-raff.

Diamonds imbued with
The reflective popularity
Of superstars; whose names
Are written on contemplative waters.

Push past the recyclable contours
Of the shoreman’s coast,
To keep informed of your own
Destination in the murk.

Hexadecimal Sunrise

The fleet; as lights spin out,
My failure as; disposable sequence
Begins again the trumpet,
And the nostalgia of our
Synthetic wounds where we

Organize ourselves around
The percolation of some
Ungodly sound;

Dream in metaphor,
Tread in still water,
It’s all the same;

Swollen knees, vagabond trances,
The scourge and reverence
Of countless stars,
As one folds into the other.

Joyous Remembrances

Do you remember,
The frozen blades of grass,
Which lay at our feet,
Taunting us with dew’s

I gave to you that day
Within the light of Winter,
The howling of my heart.

But fate draws closed the curtains,
Spreads wide her lips and laughs,
As the ice thaws.


The pot within which
All our choices boil,
And bew the hallmarks
Of our insanities,

We massacred the prophets
And the saints,
And gave up God
For laundry baskets.

To clean the sheets
Of our prophetic winds,

And emaciated
Twin beds
Could hold us in their arms.

While we gather
For a fort,
The tears and anguish
Of our disunion’s state.