In the muscular pubs, logistically difficult
blemishes reigned. Presentations cross-
referenced and free of error. Eating his words
at a nearby table, Detritus Ransom spelled
out his plan. A state of permanent ambush,
he claimed, was what was necessary.
Indebtedness biased against the insolvent,
the poor with their awful rifles and handguns.
Catacombing the city, prerecorded messages
spread with boysenberry jam. Appallingly
ostentatious, the cemetery's cypresses
pointed their twiggy fingers. Soyuz rockets
rocketed off into the bathysphere. Rampant
diseases spread their wares out on the table.
Sonnet: Calm Headland
Security news is grim, but, revisionist history aside,
we have nothing new in our buffer cache. Tamil
tigers occupy most of the known universe, empiricists
in full retreat, safe now only on this calm headland.
Redeployed, the armies of the poor pursue the issue.
In their floppy sandals, they seem contentious and yet
conscientious, bio-weapons at the ready. No simple matter,
that dedicated band of shock troops. The imaginative
dropping of information from rickety aeroplanes,
those unexcised by the budget knife. O rapid Republic!
This planet's a risky business. Fallacious manuscripts
burgeoned among the world's libraries, now often
closed, except for Tuesdays and alternate Saturdays.
Dead souls up on the roof, praying only for peace.
Sonnet: They Call the Wind Sudoku
The peace server is down for maintenance. I'll not
even comment on aesthetic realism's right to be known.
Most parents say that if they had it all to do over again
they wouldn't even bother. It's all connected. Take
my word for it. Blame the patriarchy if you must, but
pass the ammunition. We share the stage with elderly
Australian bocce players on steroids. "Haydnesque"
is the only word I'd choose if I had to describe it.
Having found your name in the directory of the African
diaspora, I cling to it as though my very life depended
on doing so. (I'd like to take a moment here to thank
my many micropatrons for all the nickels they've sent.)
One small voice is all it takes to affect the economics
of popcorn pricing. Once ruthlessly ambitious, but now . . .
Sonnet: Norwegian Moods
Ole sulked in his tent as the battle raged without.
His once-boisterous manner seemed to have vanished.
Among his cousins was one Thordan, known by all
as Thor, the Thick-headed. Ole mourned for Thordan.
While the fear of death drives some men to suicide,
Ole was fearless. Yes, foolish, as some would say.
The walls of the besieged city were covered with signs
that said, "Post No Bills," the irony not lost upon Ole.
Known as The Childless, Ole had moods as various as
the morning's weather, shifting from rain to sun
and back again from moment to moment. Disastrous
feuds claimed all of his fortune and most of his time.
Feeling words were beyond him, Ole lashed out or fell
silent, went raiding, or watched some TV.
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