Author Information
Poet Standing Before The Smoldering Ruins Of Troy
I remember when this place had a lot of class.
But now the droppings of the Trojan Horse's ass
have leveled the plain, brough to the brink
of total destruction, smoldering with their stink.
Besotted schlemiels, they stagger out of downhome bars
trying to wash away their guilt;
seeking attention for their hearts' embattled scars,
and flaunt their imitative travesty . . .
while we mourn "the city of Dioce,
"whose terraces were the color of stars."
Starward
