Precedent Poems

Poems from the prior week:


Disinfected toys infect
sterile imaginations 
cultivating dishwater childhoods
and painting beige brushstrokes
where foundational colors 
should boldly announce 
the power of contagion 
to shape the child’s caliber. 


Do you like the new house?
I love it! 
But I’m already getting used to it, and it’s becoming the old house, which isn’t as exciting...why does that happen so quickly with things?
Because they are only things. 
Because the dip screams in our ear
that enough is not enough, 
and the challenge is separating the voices
of ordinary things from the those of intrinsic value. 


That kid has a lot of growing up to do. 
Too much hair flipping on the list to do. 
Too much delegating for a title to do. 
A lot of talent waiting for maturity to do
it’s work, as life has a habit of doing. 


Isn’t it ironic when the silence of a pristine Sunday morning is broken by whips and chains and ball gags as you turn the corner on an eerily abandoned Portland street, 
emerging from Bridal Veil Falls
to find rainbows in the mist 
and on Father’s Day, a pride parade interrupts
your road trip transition from rural to urban 
during your road trip adventure. 

Sticking out like the burnt orange Longhorns and green and gold Bears burnished on your native Texan t-shirts, as two jaws drop and hundreds of partners tip their fedoras and snap long black whips on the cool asphalt at the sight of cowboy hats and jeans juxtaposing their place on the sidewalk against the colorful characters meandering down the striped streets. 

Dueling poets write straight 
this crooked picture etching memories one neuron at a time, waiting for the right time to solidify virginal moments in ink stained paper
while clear anamnesis fades over time 
along with animas as social justice ushers in kindness and cool Sunday mornings are a welcome relief amongst varieties of the company we keep. 


Dan, Dan,  the corner man,
He’s not a hoarder, he’s just doing the best he can. 

Dan, Dan, the corner man 
sleeps in his truck, eats lukewarm soup straight from the can. 

Day in and day out small engines he’ll rebuild, so at night his stripper girlfriend’s needs will be fulfilled. 

Dan, Dan, the corner man,
Don’t trim your yard, the the weeds rising above your roof provide a landmark no map can. 


The increasing financial obligation of growing older
looks like the sword of Damocles,
balancing comfort in the here-and-now
with dreams the future;
and as the scales ebb and flow
and the pointy blade gleams with reflections
of who we might be, I ponder
who it is adding mass
and which direction the balance will waver. 


Watching a baseball float majestically over the fence 
bristles the bridle of baseball brocards. 

Dangling modifiers and flipping bats 
share a common flippant attitude for parallel structure. 

The defining factor of artistic license and crackerjack theatricals -
the professional is entitled to partake, while the amature must adhere to rules written and un. 


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