Other installments of the poem Gomorrah can be found
Gomorrah likes the burning sun shine behind the hills.
Peat moss soaks up the water from the storm that passed.
He takes his trowel out in thanksgiving. Buries its blade
deep through the soiled skin. A straw hat stings his neck.
“Watch out for the cardinal. They like to steal your seeds.”
Wisdom is masked to Gomorrah. His doom feels like a
heavy stone wrapped in moss and vine. Grapes shrivel in
neglect. His object the fleshy roses planted five years past.
There are marvels in the great cumulus that gather an array
partially blessing his dirt caked hands. Susan would know.
Would understand the troubles of Gomorrah. Take him to
The Shrine to deliver the missive they writ in the dark.
Letters now only visible in the light of his heart. Gomorrah
watches the ground. Worms eat. The fluttering snow on the
mountains he knows will not reach the plains. It has been left
to the fire. The sleep of the gods cannot expel or explain.
I knew more once
a blue diamond
truth a flirting
Some people wear
Buddha morning walks
April’s Last Breath
You are my honey blazing amber flower
my fish with a fine tail
swaying on the floor
a roll in the bed
a lie in the grass
a sleep in the park
April’s last breath
awake on the skin
now drop into ecstasy
frolic along the avenue
your silky waves surrender
rock me to seaside
now my legs my arms my hands
my neck my ears my mouth
You say etcetera as if
it were poison.
The flood gates are open
and steel birds fly
from your mouth.
What time is it?
Three? I have not had
a drink for two hours.
A small nonsense poem I wrote up this morning playing around with words. No editing done, just free style, letting the words go type of writing. Thing. Anyway, here it is:
Hop spelled backwards
Poh to rhyme
A snow poh.
Or a hop wons.
Mr Hop Wons
This is the final except I am posting of Marcello’s Revenge, at least for the time being and I am able to work more on it. As I skipped posting the fourth chapter, a little explination may be required. Robin and Francine attended the party at the Periwinkles, where Robin developed a headache and sought refuge in their friend’s basement to recover. Matt is Jacob and Cora Periwinkle’s son, and Julie is a girl who Robin saw hanging out with Matt earlier at the party. This chapter sets up the main plot of the story. Thank you for reading.
Chapter 5: Fate Plays Pachinko
The room they permitted me to recuperate in would not make one think of a basement, which usually brings up images either of dank underground rooms smelling of detergents, mildew and humidity, or, even worse, a space converted into the repugnant man cave. The room is spacious with panoramic windows along a wall providing a view of the neighboring houses and countryside. It is a lounge really, with large, comfortable chairs, a desk, a bar, bookshelves, and a leather couch where I was at that time laying down. There is also an entertainment center built into a wall that contains a television, stereo, a game console, and other various electronics shining small electric stars of red, orange and yellow. It is one of two forward rooms on the lower level which border the northern exterior wall of the house, a sliding glass door in each providing access to the outside. For the sake of reference, the pool and lake reside on the eastern side of the property, and the front lawn where the party took place upon the west. The second of the forward rooms is across a small hallway and is for recreation, containing a pool and foosball table, weight sets, and exercise equipment such as a treadmill, a stationary bike and a home gym.
Chapter 2: Of Fried Bologna
There are certain things in life that we learned from a point so far back in our past that we can recall no memory of their formation. Chained to these habits we had no choice in making, be they of intellectual, emotional or physical nature, we continue to do them into perpetuity. This idea crystalized in my mind once years ago when making a fried bologna sandwich one evening for my son. For reasons that I cannot explain, I make a cut in the round slice of meat, starting at its center and straight out to the exterior. A radial cut, if you will, and if such a term is real. How many other people do this I would hardly be able to hypothesize. It is not a topic that crops up often in everyday conversations, and I have never taken a survey on the matter to give any type of accurate assessment. But I do remember both of my parents doing it. My ex-wife never made one, at least not in my presence. Francine does, bless her, but if this is for my benefit or not, I am not sure. I tend to think, though, that she had never had a fried bologna sandwich before, so had no frame of reference, and I corrupted the poor girl. Perhaps it is a genetic condition. Perhaps there is no difference in the taste between cut and un-cut. Being physically unable to break the bonds and try it without it being cut in that specific way, I will never know. And so we beat on, as Fitzgerald wrote, passing forth our habits such as frying little, meaty Pac Men, slathering them with mustard, and smothering them between two slices of bread.
She bought him oranges the day
he came home.
Driving with her, she spoke poetic
“I love the blossoming trees.
Their sweet, brilliant
And see how the green goes up and up.”
She was to cut the oranges into small
pieces for him
and, having her fill
of death and waste, hope nestled
lovingly into her.
But spring speaks in irony,
and the orange I had for lunch
at my desk
went untouched by her, never
to pass his lips.
Chapter 1: Lunch and Other Matters
Almost looking like a small hamlet in New England, the neighborhood is a lovely collection of cute white houses with brown rooftops nestled into the side of a hill, cradled by towering trees. A scattering of children played along the black top streets and on the fresh grass in the May-time sun. There was an unconcerned air about, in the men mowing their yards and the women drinking rum and cokes in their parlor rooms, an unnoticed or ignorant quality that prospered in its own vile hypocrisy. Sitting out at a table on our back patio, I had just finished a light lunch of a ham sandwich, which Francine had, as usual, added too much arugula and mustard, and a cucumber salad which she had managed to make to perfection. I lit a cigarette and watched a wasp fly up the side of my house. Francine, who had only a few bites of her lunch, busily cut postcards into small bits with a pair of blue handled scissors, her feet touched mine under the table, which I found comforting. Gates, the dog, snored by the sliding glass door.
“Dear, what are you doing there?” I asked.
“Cutting up postcards,” she replied, her eyes almost cross as she came to a particularly difficult cutting angle.
“Yes, I can see that. But whatever for?”
Outside the smell of hot dogs
a Cup of Joe
by he (me)
under a tree
ant pinched elbow
a bench with no romantic connection
old and aged
oars in the water
under breaking waves
lake crystalline green
algae slurped edges
baseball in the air
silver white satellite
(blue grey background
drunk on wine)
the long wall
the third day
a mariposa wind fills the sky