The Poet Apocalypse

"I am sick all these goddamn poets
lurking around here at all
hours of the night!"
Sam said.  And he slammed
the front door. Lillian
was in the kitchen
shutting the windows and
closing the blinds
"They're even trying to get
in this way!" she cried.
"Quick go around the house
and make sure the place
is locked down good and tight."
"The cellar!" Sam cried.
He ran down the cellar stairs.
The hatchway was bolted.
A few hours passed
and everything became
silent and calm.
"Sam?" Lillian said.
"What do we do now?"
"I don’t know Lillian.
God knows I don’t."
Sam said and lit
his last cigarette.

The Ordinary Returns to Shutesbury, Massachusetts

As women flutter about like bats

and pollinate every table

with goldenrods, one begins

to acknowledge the sheer “O” one

feels from being alone in a field.

This adds to the clouds over

head because they are apart

of so many wider “Os”

A girl rolling her ankle under

a toboggan. The dog lapping

up the banana pudding.

Coition brings a chain of them.

While a roller coaster one long

“Whoa.” And, oh yes, the “oh” of forgetfulness.

In a few hours you see this  O another way.

A man wants to finish undressing you.

“There are so many fucking robins,” you try to say

but slip and “robbers” fit.

A heaping of salamanders break for the pond.

But suddenly, a smile breaks across a child’s

face, handing you his finished dinner plate.