Poem #98

Well-rounded as a flat-earther,

Or washed up like a fat surfer,

From your first word

‘Til your last gurgle

You’ve gotta cat-burgle:

Get to the top of the story,

Look down,

Don’t grind just to stay on the ground,

Stuck in the mud,

Spreadeagle,

Waiting on fate or St. Caj

To come free you:

Hope’s an imperfect shelter,

Like ozone–

So find your own suit

Like Frozone,

Be content on your lonesome;

Got ideas? Float ’em,

And broker inner tokens

In return for a totem.

Poem #79

Do you ever worry

That you haven’t quite got it?

That your mailman span and

Dropped on cobbles,

Hastening to deliver your memo?

That, come to think of it,

Your memo’s still pocketed

In his neon-orange jacket

(Which he was entombed with, having died on the job)?

Of course.

You can’t RSVP to that

Which was never received.

Perhaps, sooner or later, in due course,

A gravedigger will exhume the

Good-body-good-mind-effective-relax-efficient-grind-

Memo,

And slip it

Into your expectant claw.