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THE BEAT IS COMPLETE

WHEN THE RHYME IS IN TIME

IT CAN NOT COMPETE

IT WOULD BE SUCH A CRIME

IMAGINATION

OF ANIMATION

A DEMONSTRATION

OF FASCINATION

A DEDICATION

OF INSPIRATION

The Good Poem Gone Bad / The Bad Poem Gone Good

The “good” poem builds its cathedral,
 arches of meter, stained‑glass rhyme.
But the tourists are bored,
 they’ve seen this nave before.
The bell tolls on time,
 and that is the problem.

   (cue jump cut)

The “bad” poem stumbles in, drunk
 syntax crooked, enjambment bleeding,
 clichés dragged like tin cans behind a wedding car.
It laughs at its own metaphors,
 spills ink across the page like wine.
And suddenly—
 the room leans in.

   (Dutch angle: the stanza tilts)

Good form is polished marble,
 but marble cracks,
 and the cracks are where the moss grows.
Bad form is scaffolding,
 but scaffolding is where the workers sing.

   (breaking the fourth wall)

You, reader,
 yes, you —
 are waiting for the “proper” line break.
So, here it is.
But wasn’t the stumble more alive?

   (overexposure)

Too many images,
     too many suns,
           too many mirrors reflecting mirrors reflecting mirrors—
   until the page is bleached white.
                                      And in that glare,
                            the “bad” poem breathes.

.

A LONG FORGOTTEN SLICE OF TIME

CAUGHT ON TAPE BY A FRIEND OF MINE

I SUPPOSE I SHOULD MENTION

I HAVE NO RECOLLECTION

I DON'T EVEN RECOGNIZE ME

I DON'T EVEN RECOGNIZE  ME

JUST KNOW THAT IT'S MY VOICE CLEARLY

ALWAYS BEEN MATTER OF FACT FRIENDLY

TRY NOT TO BE

IN THE WRONG PLACE

AT THE WRONG TIME

OR YOU MAY SEE

YOUR RIGHTS ERASED

IT'S SUCH A CRIME

CRAZY PEOPLE

HAVE LOST THEIR MINDS

AT THE WORLD'S EXPENSE

A CHURCH STEEPLE

OF ANY KIND

BEST KNOW SELF DEFENSE

INSANITY

ROAMS RAMPANTLY

IT'S COMPLETE NONSENSE

CANDLES FLICKERING IN THE DARK

CASTING SHADOWS WITH THEIR SPARK

SOMETIMES EERIE SOMETIMES NOT

IMAGINATION PLAYS A PART

PATTERNS SHIFTING IN THIN AIR

ARE THEY EVEN REALLY THERE

OR ILLUSIONS IN LOW LIGHT

THAT CAN GIVE SOME QUITE A FRIGHT

CANDLES AND SHADOWS HAND IN HAND

MAY CREATE THINGS QUITE UNPLANNED

Croesus in the Comment Box

(a companion to “Poems for Money…”)

Croesus, old coin‑king,
you sit in my comment box
polishing your metaphors in gold leaf,
telling me the platform fee is “just the cost of doing art.”

But I’ve seen the gates,
how they swing only for those
with a credit card in the lock.
I’ve heard the hallow of poems
that never make it past the paywall,
their syllables still warm in the mouths
of poets who can’t afford
to spit them into the feed.

You say, “What’s a few coins for immortality?”
I say, “What’s immortality to the unheard?”
In Lagos, in La Paz, in Lahore,
there are verses that could split the sky,
but the sky here takes payment in advance.

Croesus, you measure worth in minted weight;
I measure it in the tremor of a line
that makes a stranger’s chest ache.
Your treasury is full,
but my currency is breath —
and breath should not be billed.

Still, I post what I can,
slipping lines through the cracks
between your gold‑plated rules,
hoping one will land in a reader’s hands
like contraband joy.

And if you ask me again
why I won’t pay to be heard,
I’ll tell you this:
because the richest poem I know
was written in the dust,
read aloud to the wind,
and carried farther than your coins could ever reach.

The Archivist

Breath—
caught in the rafters’ dim lattice,
a leaf turns,
seasonless.

Dust,
a pale script
unfolding in the hollow of a hand.

Spines incline—
mute elders—
their gilt a slow
constellation.

No pen,
yet the air
breaks into lines,
each pause
a door
unlatched in silence.

Volume shut—
not ending,
but the echo
of a word
never spoken.

.

CHOOSE YOUR WORDS WISELY

USE THEM PRECISELY

SPEAK THEM CONCISELY

TURNS OUT QUITE NICELY