“All Sewer Drains Smell the Same”
All sewer drains smell the
same,
no matter which rank city.
They say the ancient Greeks
invented indoor plumbing,
but wine and olives for breakfast can’t
be interchanged.
There is a slight change in
the biochemistry of the bowel,
(for example, Philadelphia has that antiquated Keystone stench)
but whether you’re in Atlanta,
Chicago, Los Angeles, London, Barcelona,
Berlin, Warsaw, Moscow, Baghdad, Tehran, New Delhi, Beijing,
hell, even Pyongyang—
(don’t ask, don’t tell)
the compost builds
exponentially with fertile flowers,
keeping us constrained in one
place; one man-made being
of diversified shit, even when
the temporary rain dissolves us—
the woes of carbon monoxide molecules dying.
“An Avening in Amherst”
…and the (h) is silent,
as per the locals, just so you know.
—
Silhouettes of a time—clouded ramparts—
into the low, rolling hills of Amherst.
A welcoming promenade—
a dirt road in Antebellum bliss—
leads these doe eyes to her.
There!
Standing shadow of the estate window yonder—
Dickinson’s oak is what the outstretched arms feel like
on Christmas morn,
yet shielding us from the humid temperance,
encapsulating us in antiquity.
The bark speaks her tongues
with each gnarled groove.
Stick a record needled down in there
and feel goosebumps rise.
And now, those creaky steps
recount the maestro on her unsung piano—
ivory keys lathered with the oil of her skin.
God, please, let me touch you,
adorned in silken nightgown,
you petite witch of the written word.
How pure, the virgin’s pearl speaks to me—
your auburn locks entice my advance,
until your portrait feels my breath of life.
Hark!
the enticing love,
through the blues of winter,
as cathedral tunes weigh in the new year frost.
Let me shut—no, slam—the door
on your societal cause,
whilst carving a peeping-tom hole,
so that our messages are not completely mute,
and my life is yours,
for the grandiose return.
“This Poem is About Triangles”
This poem is about triangles
and how many points can taper into infinity
whilst disregarding the hypotenuse of incongruence.
There is a certain degree in which one can imagine
the ancient Egyptians shoving stones
down the mouth of the Nile
via inclined planes,
(which are triangles by association)
thus damming the flood.
Reaching infinity at the apex
while buzzards swarm the locust buzz.
Think of how insolent a triangle is
when it involves three lovers
with three separate angles
on a single circle of lust.
3
as we revolve around this round world
and remain in the same spot
as obtuse asteroids barrel past
the sundial of Pythagoras—broken.