French Fries: Because I Love It

Consumed one at a time or all at once,

or shared with friends, the ones who've earned the right.

It's not potato wedges, mashed, or baked,

but golden strips called fries, ones eaten dipped

in ketchup, gravy, ranch, honey mustard,

sour cream, mayo, tartar, poutine, hot sauce,

with fried chicken, burger, grilled steak, kebab,

enjoyed by all around the hungry globe.

————

How would you like being

boiled alive in murderous waters,

then dipped in the thick-skinned oil—

so loud the sizzling 

of your flesh echoes?

Because I love it.

Love Is the Risk

Love, the dutiful wheels

of time, the mother’s

milk, the arthritic

fingers rinsing your dish, the words

you can’t remember (to the music

you can never forget). Love is not the rose

but the soil kissing its feet and water

feeding its verdant bones and sun care-

ssing its palms lifted in prayer.

Love is the risk

the sky took, be-

coming, sacrificing,

letting the stars each take

a share of its heart to shimmer

with the generosity of a being

who has known how it feels to be

loved.

Despair

I.

you.

Alone.

Together.

There was nothing

to say. Words failed

us. Hauuuuuuh.

Me in the chair.

You on the bed.

Life is not

fair is

what I wanted to say

not cough and

swallow.

You didn’t even 

look 

when the nurse said 

it's a beautiful day

outside.

The Blue Bird

little depends

on

twit

ter accounts

even those belonging to heavy

weights

clucking all day like

chickens

I’ve Nothing to Say (a poem that is the “opposite” of “This Is Just to Say” by William Carlos Williams)

You won’t drink

the milk

that’s outside

the microwave

but that

I certainly won’t

be having

for dinner

I'll blame you regardless

for drinking spoiled milk

that’s gone sour

from all the heat.

a 5-7-5 haiku

I climb the dark road,

till I meet another lone

traveller, the moon.