The Mezunian

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

Day o’ Rest in Peace

( Note: due to internet outages, this poem comes 1 week after the event ).

Accompanying music

Sunday morn in peace ~

lone, pieces fall together.

February snow.

Sunday day in pieces ~

e’en the tree I’ve known fore’er

falls dead.

Not so silly anymo’ ~

a fir’s yellow scarf.

Me dejaste aquí como un contorno de tiza

en la acera esperar para la lluvia lavarse, lavarse.

Sigues volviendo al lugar del crimen,

pero los muertos no pueda hablar y no queda nada decir, de todos modos.

Those were the words I heard in summer 2012,

when 1st I learned that no foundation keeps its build;

higher than 5 years following, you remind me

the prophesy forgotten fell fulfilled.

Posted in Española, Haiku, Senryu y amigos, Metered, Poetry

October Friday 13 Sonnet

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Lemon drops on milky clouds

bound this wistful field above

pewter lakes — ¡but wait! ¡Look now!

¿How’d this specter enter such

verdant film now ill, when it

wasn’t there before. Before I

eat my harvest, fix on this

ray of sunlight staged for sore eyes.

Superstitions won’t sway trees;

what a day to buy tea leaves —

October Friday 13.

Posted in Metered, Mezunian Sonnet, Poetry

Royal Purple Sky Sonnet

Saw outside a lonely time

shadow firs are teasing me

breezily. Their scents make pine

every time all kinds, seasoning.

Under skies as pure as opal,

bright night dimmed by grim surroundings,

worse by wind, won’t hush, but yodels.

Houses still for nature’s crowning.

For my birthday, I would like

tons of air a year for life —

swear to heart won’t waste this time.

Posted in Metered, Mezunian Sonnet, Poetry


Accompanying music

Only in the night do I feel full,

where the darkness cuts the light stark clear.

Sparked awake by th’sugar treats:

jangling, cooing, thumping melodies.

* * *

Accompanying music

But then the moon must always fall,

revealing all the messiness.

Warped from the ghost with th’world on strings

to choke on millions of inhuman human abstract things.

Falling wind…
weak leaves shake on ends
bright & dim.

Posted in Metered, Poetry

Ode to What is Not a Summer Oak

Green-glowing leaves, tanned brown by angry suns

isn’t what I’m writing ’bout.

How scarlet peckers’ needle beats thy drum.

They can’t; they don’t exist. Neither dost “thou.”

¿& all those tardy sunset conflagrations?

are nothing but your wild imagination.

No, no, no…

I’ll tell you what it’s all ’bout,

I'll tell you what it's all 'bout...

October sugar o’ peanut butter cups

plucked off the vine ripe after ages o’ toil—

& buttery black oil…

No, no, no, stop.

Don't interrupt me.

It is not good for my constitution, you fuck fucker.

There is no autumn,

nor no spring.

There ne'er was,

& there ne'er will be 'gain.

It's o'er, it's done.

We've had an OK run, ¿OK?


Nothing's OK in this throat o' the woods.

Nothing good...

A mushy lump o’ brown fruit bitter with too many months falls with an unheard squish

not in half-rainbow leaves;

not in cool turquoise streams;

not on pine-shaded, moss-brimmed eaves;

not in bowls o’ whipped cream…

There's nowhere for you to flee, my dear.

There is nothing here.

Posted in Crazy, Metered, Poetry

I Tried to Take a Photo o’ the Cloudy Crescent-Moon Sky

A purple too minty to snatch,

so always it’s fading to black;

& all your strong crescent-shaped curves

are melted to coffee-desk burns.

& the firs disperse…

I tried every setting, but none

would work: neither higher exposure,

nor color enhancements. ¿So what

resource will for once offer closure?

“Photo-taking poser…”

& look, I did try to research…

but all I could find were e’en more

those idiot numbered lists churned

by hit-grabbing narcissist whores.

Straying from the core…

Inside I found mo’ settings &

then went outside to try again,

but found the crescent moon had left.

¿& don’t that just fuck me in th’ass

to death?


Posted in Metered, Poetry


In my attempts to shelter rain,

the sun still sneaks inside through blind spots,

stretching stark nights wide awake

& making mornings gorgeous vine clots.


O, ¿will I miss another bus

on sidewalks paved with flashing chills?

Why, yes, I will—all because o’ the sun,

who never has to pay the bills.

(What a bum.)


Stop cutting up my meters, son—

I must walk 10 to reach my destination.

¿Or was that 8?… Fuck…

“To wait this line you must have patience.”


But I don’t want to end, my friend—

to leave my friend, the cheddar oak.

¿Who needs birdseed when I could tend

to pinecones pancaked under spokes?

(Shut up—it makes perfect sense.)

2 doves on
creaky branches called
a couplet

branches sing no more,
“O, fuck it.”

Posted in Haiku, Senryu y amigos, Metered, Poetry

Gasoline Winter Sonnet

with the scent o’ berries, too;

smudged on smoky sidewalk chalk.

Chalk it up to moonlit blues,

choking me up harshly soft.

Chatter dead is better than dead

silence wand’ring wolfen streets on

urban hills that never bend &

shatters into icy neon.

Moonlight full o’ foggy capes,

follow me through thin-black japes’

scarecrow boughs that ease me blank.

Posted in Metered, Mezunian Sonnet, Poetry

Hearth Factory Sonnet

Note: I was going to “celebrate” Marxmas by posting an article wherein I shit on Marxism & it’s stupid “Dictatorship of the Proletariat” bullshit, ’cause, as predicted, 2015 was a bad year, & that’s what you do on years without a warm future. But I’m sick to death o’ politics (& don’t have the time to revise it to coherency), so enjoy this superior, relaxing sonnet ‘stead.

Accompanying music.

I can feel your yellow heart

piping spice in frozen nights,

where your sturdy metal starts

bending in such smoke so tight,

snuggled up with razor noise,

which is where the fireworks bloom,

showing off your rusty toys,

like your gurgling cauldron plume.

Though I rest in cotton caves,

your gears’ll never wane,

even when I’m in my grave.

Posted in Metered, Mezunian Sonnet, Poetry