Yuppies Laughing

The sound of yuppies laughing

Curdles the retail air;

Hyenas howling at their prey

With no pity to spare.

Long nails are newly polished:

Straight teeth are brilliant white.

With credit cards in platinum,

They’re ready for a fight.

Dior, Chanel, and Prada,

L.V. and sometimes Coach:

They salivate with hunger,

Making their approach.

They prowl around the merchandise

Sniffing at this or that,

Trying on fine silken shirts

Hoping to not look fat.

A glint of gold and diamonds

Flashes when they attack.

Great sacks are filled with baubles,

Of which they soon lose track.

They know no natural predators,

They fear no foe’s advance.

They sit atop the food chain,

They leave nothing to chance.

So scrabble in the cold mud,

Seek safety where you must.

The sound of yuppies laughing:

A sound you should not trust.

The Girl And The Kite

She clutches the spool

With desperate joy,

Delighting in the gentle tug

Of the silky twine.

High above,

The faded nylon canvas

Flutters noisily.

The yearning winds awaken.

Yanked aloft,

Her toes escape the grass

And dangle free.

Giddy relief

Fills her heart

Upon safe return.

As her laughter

Echoes dimly far below,

He stretches

His tattered fabric

Against splintering rods

And is grateful

For her steady grasp.

No Words

Laying one word

Next to the other,

Neatly aligning

Each syllable and beat,

I suddenly find myself

At the end

With no words

Left to set.

What Gift?

What gift
Have I bestowed upon you?

Whose blood
Does your skittish heart pump?

A generation passes

Down from my

Sad eyes to yours,

Furrowing your brow,

Firing each nerve

With violent frenzy.

And I sorrow that

I have no better

Gift to give.

Cocaine Dreams

Still languishing

In fuzzy-headed stupor,

Eyes smoky and syrupy,

Flirting with waking,

I focus my brain on

Slumbering fantasies of
Powdered confection.

In that moment of

Being and not being,

Euphoria and Dread

Become entwined,

And beckon me

With sultry eyes

To join their dance.

A Better Poem For You

You deserve a better poem,

Not that vomitus tripe.

A tender echo of my love:

The dewy, flowery type.

Perhaps a soaring sonnet,

With clever turns of phrase,

Pronouncing deep affection,

Until my dying days.

Compare you to the sunrise?

Or roses in their bloom?

Strung together metaphors

Bemoaning true love’s doom?

I wish I had it in me;

My own brain stops me dead.

The words I strive to muster

Just clank around instead.

Forgive this poor apology,

This self-indulgent scree,

And all the silly nonsense

My poetry can be.

Angry Little Boy

There’s an angry little boy

Running ‘round in all my clothes

Pretending to be grown-up

While picking at his nose.

His suit is quite expensive,

Those shoes? Italian-made.

This boy had best be careful --

He knows how much I paid.

He struts about importantly,

Commanding with a glance,

Puffing out his hollow chest,

Pantomiming dance.

He bellows empty orders,

And stomps impatiently

As all around him cower

And search for ways to flee.

He spends his money freely,

On shiny toys and games,

And stuffs his head with candy

To soothe the burning flames.

He’s good at playing grown-up,

Though it brings no joy.

He fully looks the part,

This melancholy boy.

Undone Things

They recline among the cobwebs,

Vacation in the rust,

Sit high atop the garbage heaps,

And smell of moldy crust.

They dance 'round creaky door frames

And hide in old accounts.

They rollick through my waking hours,

Riding dust bunny mounts.

They gorge themselves on best-laid plans,

Feasting 'til they burst.

These undone things are stalking me:

I’d better get them first!