Two new poems: irony & The Gnomist



I needed to start a fire
so I bought my own book
back for a buck and
skinned a small animal
for dinner.


The Gnomist

A strange, sensational paragraph
inserts itself into my narrative,
chokes the captain’s toupee to the floor.

The producers are watching closely
to see if I’ll pack the house
w/congressmen, w/whores.

Courting the machine’s mask,
a baleful, crying moon
reneges knowledge for desolation.
We all work for warring nations.

And that is how
those Mad Max movies
get started: The money tanks,
the food goes rotten, and
everyone walks in the same ugly boot.


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