The Mezunian

Die Positivität ist das Opium des Volkes, aber der Spott ist das Opium der Verrückten

Route Sonnet

Accompanying music

Feeding thirsty leaves, the grapes

paint the concrete oily yellow;

& they keep unique pastel glow

e’en when wrinkled by dry age.

Get’n to business pecks the crow,

front & back, that beaky drummer;

no concern that e’en in summer

faded mountains still smell like snow.

But that sun was far too distance;

now there’s shade. The fact, though, is that

still these crows get down to business.

Posted in Metered, Mezunian Sonnet, Poetry

Seaweed Sonnet

Accompanying music.

I can taste the bloody iron

in your sticky spinach clinging

to the rocks, your simple sirens,

though its your leaves that are singing.

There is safety in remains,

memories o’ wine-sweet bliss;

ride on waves, on ships, on chains,

green all that is colorless.

Still you cling to my gray shoes;

though I love your ugly fruit,

progress says you get the boot.

Posted in Metered, Mezunian Sonnet, Poetry

There is Warmth in the Cool, Dark Night

Accompanying music.

Ignore the sun’s slander:

as much as there is in the golden retriever,

there is strawberry syrup in the heart o’ the salamander.

Black is the color o’ cola & chocolate,

& I can feel the moon’s flour crumble in my fingertips,

can feel the soggy brown leaves hug my feet

as they pass poems by Hershy, Sunkist, & Tim’s scattered through the street.

Like ancient Greek plays,

torrents quench nerves dried sick by sunburns;

& there’s peace in the chaos o’ carpet floors

scattered with papers, wires, & shirts.

For what is beauty but that which we accept?

Thus, if we accept ugliness, misery, & death…


They don’t.

I take it all back:

all o’ the muddy foot tracks,

all o’ the red marks left by tacks,

all o’ the limbs blown onto my yard,

all o’ the cheap rom hacks o’ Mario Kart.

There’s only room for either day or night,

& the moon’s not full ‘nough to finish that fight;

so we must all be subjected to the light

—the lactose intolerant to be sacrificed.

Posted in Poetry

It is Now My Duty to Completely Drain You


Hold it there, Signor Sher: I just

saw you rolling round the sun-caressed

grass villi like a cub fucking

for the 1st time—well, OK, nothing

o’ this I truly saw; but I did glimpse flashing

colors through your eyes into your mind, basking

in your soft cotton sweats &

your puffy jacket. Think you’re the cream on the pumpkin

pie, right? Wrong! We were saving this

sweet & sour sunlight. It wasn’t meant for you.

Nothing is.

That’s right: put it all back where

you found it—all o’ the slick hair-

like grass; all o’ the viney

wrinkles on every oak; every

juicy loose-leaf hugging your

shoeless socked feet; & all 4

seasons. Don’t miss e’en the most worthless

piece. We’ll count them all to ascertain

that they’re all returned.

As for you, you

need to get a clue:


Posted in Poetry

El junio otoñal

Quiza es junio,

pero el celeste gris

y el aire que es tan frío que puede verlo

lo hacen un junio del otoño,

ni del verano ni siquiera de la primavera.

So there.

Posted in Española, Poetry