Two Poems, Zero Titles.

At all times the very ground
only to find an emotion
that moment, fix
to an ordinary life
how the hair curls round
the ear. Fixating on
loving many people without
pauses between, discord
writing verse, a woman
a while ago. All who
settle in. Self-aware,
of a fashion, having
an ordinary life, passing
judgment does not will
genius to die. A find
I am of the same stuff,
humility, Remedios,
Emmylou, humble and
placed so I admire vaguely
a bargaining self such
in the pauses between.


Under that mire of hair she
kept proving. I tossed a line
and she tossed it back, swam in,
her butt keeping buoyancy checked,
I realized. Then I insisted
it wasn’t the shoreline of
café culture. Just she wanted
to rest her feet. Doesn’t even
like coffee. Would I chivvy.
Renting bikes was no option.
On foot we were evened,
but her pack held more rations.
Asking was hard. I asked.
She held out a brandy truffle.
I wintered under the short share,
turned in my least concern. I
care for the scaffolding, rib
the underpinning, stanchion, stay.

Anna Fulford and I Occasionally write Occasional Poems

Parachute for Scooter On Commuting
-dedicated to Supryia Ray

I whatever
in the red sea summit
made your heart parachute parachute
Made your heart crib, the pirate and heart,
I was the heart which is old, and you still to maintain.
You in the family courtyard.
In the family noose, the institute.
Weather-vane was in the Green

Forgiveness.
No matter who noose
who seamount, Peru's machine.
I felt cheerful. I had the scope
The cover (basket)gives up (swing).
You are that good child,
you are drawn on the rack.
Your rib of blessing and,
,and the law Bestia

I Rose. just epidemion.
I crib. Goes pirate.
Was Rose in the Commuting yard.
I have the field but not the contracts. contracts.
Any argument (makes) garment (Clinton).
Reaches high tide. Further dirty mark.
The cover (basket) stops (swing).
step of dirt



On the occasion of a Six-Foot Tall Man

in the Baptismal Font

who was tall in the beginning
and was tall when he managed
his Belly Flop Safe Word was God
and he was not a parrot-teacher
as all words were made by him and on him head
shorn no horns but shone out of darkness
a light foot despite a lanky height
and the mid day light partly understood

and arranged for a squelching sound
in his shoes as he circled round the sacristy,
as he buttered his wit for the slow simmer
of prayer words what not to make the crowd chitter
after such a scene in the baptismal font,

the scene that was seen, which was

merely a dumb-show, no argument of folly.

Anna Fulford and I recall a horrific poolside cockroach massacre

Tig in May-

A waterbeetle, a hot brick. I thought
you might become heroic if I let my eyes
stay right on it. Saw you welding it to the heart
shaped cement, Sawn you working it with a burnt
foot paddy-padding up the catwalks. Gumshoe feline
with a roach hook, scatter action haymaker.
The option here is laugh or not laugh. Loitering
in and out the window, lanky as a pully whistle
grim as a nut punch moniker. Eyed it, Red-
Brown and not a wholesome critter.
Three inches worth of insect
is a shiver-giver, not funny at all.

Many Thanks,
Anna and Georgia














Dear Mrs. G. & Mrs. A.,

Let me swing you round my half
of this brew ha harm when it was
the medium-sized rasper and only one
could make it keep their shell.
Mine was a magenta flower-print
and I planned to keep it on. That one
clattered in a most standard armor
and not flattering at all. Despite
the hide-your-tummy halter.
T'was ochre and ribbled and too
too organic. Shirting blind
to the must-do's of stewardship,
no help the onlook-two lolly-giggling such
I had to act brash, read: smash.
Records true my low-most appendages
were pidgeons without they have
exoskeletal umbrage. But that ring mail
clean cracked, made peace
with the quartz confetti
and despite one last flaccid try
was already mind-out to the sewers.

Let it be known,
Trigger May

Poem Prompting Prompts Poems

Relatetionship
by Sean T. Randolph
(Bonnie Jean ex#1)

Dear,
Dull, ill temptered, wontix ex-boyfriend.

You cannot cheat music
Like your honed lead arm cheated
Dawn.

Your leader is dull too
And Dawn's popsys
is not sufficient
not to launch at least.

I chose to write this on a
Mosque postcard
when the other febee would not
adequately create the matter.

-Dawn
P.S. Stop these teeth

And our next prompt:

1) Pick a word; visit www.thesaurus.com and choose a synonym for that word. Now you have your title.

2) Every stanza must have 7 C's and 2 X's. Stanzas can be of any length but your poem must have at least three stanzas.

3) Include in your poem: a fruit, a(n) (in)famous criminal, the name of one your your family members, and a song title,

4) You must have one end-rhymed set of lines, and the rhyming words must be of a wallstreet journal-esque lexical set (ex: quota).

here I go:

Long Way Labyrinthine

Your patria potestas is a Robinhood exact.
Come rain, come brainshine. Citation CIX:
I held riches twice and wanted none.

Suspended in your standard waxwing flocking call,
the botanicals say: this is how sound travels
from California, from Connecticut, from the fixed coast.
Love is calling love back home. The feathered ear persists.

Maid Marian: I held you in esteem, during even
your briefest executive careers. May Day
for the simplest scriptwriter, faintest autocrat.
Ballad Scholars' content-based analysis revealing
your current-most influence index careering.

Family picnic calls for at least six casseroles,
coolers of Jollygood to pipe the pips.
Expected to glut when the spread contains
cream of chicken soup enough to flood a project.
Take it, Robin, when all eyes are on the balloon toss.
Crockery and all. Redistribution is the name of the game.


here Anna go:

Bravery, Backbone, Kidney Sauce

What kind of pig-canny makes cerebrum all in parts,
In separate bunches? Pugnacious lobe,
Pie eating lobe. Pax Romana. What your mother told you
Not to risk. No exceptional mettle in there.
Even so, or accordingly, or therefore
Your hypothalamus is angry. Almond size
You climb each

Suicide rung with your ass hanging into space
But they still won’t let you in. Face and Face and Face:
They treat you like a rookie. Still really tough exterior
Leather pomegranate husk. And then some Barbara
Part of your brain circumvents you brutally. You have to make
The chicken wing fist. You have to start a rumor.
For example,

Fascicle pamphlet number 7
Has you picking lice out of a tattoo, but not for sanitary.
Even as they epidemic all around you. Dirty Bird, You vector,
Hooker, carcass stacker. Occupation: Meat Inspector. Warehouse
Grunt. No rebel Wolfe Tone. Tony Toni Tone. Just You
Pustule. Flex Your stomacher. Exhibit it.
I thought so.



and now, Sean:

Sermonize

Gabe C. kept no index
this seemed to have no adverse effects
until the excess of taxlessness
broke his belt at recess
and cashews couldn’t have caught

his lunchbox
his contraband
and this dusty winter will survive
whether he or I, like lynx
will live off of dates
the thicket of criminal air, where
carnivorous fangs fall pleading

for this sermon
fox-like and low on numbers
when sex could not please
laughter will do
and his cold rehearsal
crunching aluminum cans
the crackling junkyard sedan
terribly coarse penetrating voices

This dusty criminal sermon will not stand.

A Bulwark Against

or read it on EOAGH.


This cumulative match-and-trace become brand
new, fold-fold fate toy and bent over flexural
until the last one was resembling a true totem

grimly passing with a too-tonal battery of
the bright ones in the splash for enough a time

slips out the back gate and is never heard. By and by

her wake-and-braid is unmade by lunchtime
and is only one-half your fault you’re doubting
the reference, even, between this and sister’s juju

worn as an anklet, savvy; worn around the neck, none.
You’ll have it off by sundown, and the clouds to mark us
just one step outside the compound as downfelled.

Who to Distract a Nation

The message, in the summer of that year, in the season of war

and an illicit birds-nesting expedition tall white Letters

only a few recognized among them a Professor, a Lord,

four young men from a nearby town and a lass known only as becoming

one of them clambered into sometimes wrongly called

a nasty shock, graffiti on the plinth, all ran for their lives

on the premise that it might have been a witch complete

but for a name, as was writ on the obelisk, Popular Interest

was an intensified token to whomever it readily asked Who

sold the information chalked all over the region Who

acted as a conduit appearing at local Who was sister to Who had become

marginally involved have resurrected their file,

a spokesman said, angling toward an organized Think Tank

pores over all what kinds of incurred bafflement

followed up without many offers, without whereabouts of help

Don't look, Dad, it's a Three-Way Collab!

Baby Knorg