An ornamental rose
Smells empty
But familiar in its
Botanical purity;
A sweatless, grassy,
Fresh-air familiarity,
With the hint of aloofness
You pay the florist for.
Roses that smell sweet
Tend to breed wilder,
Less refined,
And call it what you will
But I’m not sure it’s
A compliment.

Really, we should leave
Flowers out of interpersonal
Fantasies, flowers never
Lie, and a rose never
Sacrificed its own beauty
For an ideal. Or maybe it’s a symptom
Of Modernity
That even the scent of roses
Smacks of apathy.


Cotton balls in corners
Glued like snowflakes
To the paint
Rip them off
Expose the plaster
Still it looks like winter:
The ruin of a pretty thing.

Cotton balls in pockets
Where squirrels keep their treasures
Where woodland denizens put hits
On the hunter
A deer head in the bed of roses
Like Don Acorneone.

Cotton balls in cheeks
To wipe off your eyes before bedtime
Don’t swallow
They’ll get lost in there
And your fake machismo
Will soften a truer death.

Stick them in corners
And they’ll look like snow
Stick them in circles
And they’ll resemble
The countless snowmen
You couldn’t roll
From the mud.

Rabbit Eggs [30/03/17]

Like Birth
Spring is a time of
New life and
Wailing and
The summer-starved world romanticizes
Its arrival voraciously with
Lush carnal pastorals:
Warrens filled to bursting with
Rabbit eggs.

The spring reeks rotten,
Like those who, lately entombed with the emerging Earth
Too world-soaked to last the winter
Hotly decay to melt the snow.

Frost defies thaw
To quench the new shoots and buds
As if the Earth, embarrassed by its virginal reincarnations
Strove to halt the blossomings
With its last filthy-wet
Gasps of obscene
Hibernal air.


Where is a flower’s heart?
Its sap is blood;
Its stalk an artery pumping
Its leaves and petals with
Soil-sucked life.
But why, and how?
A flower is a heart of hearts,
A cardiac autonomy,
For the body has its courage,
But foliage alone stands against human expansion
And blossoms are the Earthly test of permanence.


March twenty-first:
The vernal equinox of yore
Now lauded as “World Poetry Day”.
Perhaps the astronomical association
Adds a touch of floridness
To the date;
New-spring journals once filled with pressed flowers
Now give up their bounties to make room
For pages of epithets
To be leafed through rarely,
Like the rare still-wild field
Unsalted with concrete ruins.
In libraries, in classrooms,
Maybe even in magazines
Verses, not unlike to this, will be noted
For their literary embellishment
Of the habitual.
Daily goings-on given a stained-glass
Projection into the Superb.
And then, tomorrow,
Society’s sober return
To a wonderless quotidian.


These times we live in would
Set a man to rave
In a spring downpour of bad news
Like Lear in the storm
While Reagan decries courtly rights
As Fake News
And Cordelia dies with her discovery
That the Truth cannot stave off tragedy
It only deepens the pools of reflection
In the aftermath for the Losing Side.
History is written and repeated by The Winners.

These times we live in
Would set a man to rave
But in a world where all are raving
Clear-skied clarity is the Fool’s Domain.