"Mr. Gabidar Loses Track of Time"

Mr. Gabidar runs late for the train,
at night in a trench coat he leaves the store,
he stands on the platform and prays for rain.

His wife watches TV, piss down the drain,
she wonders when he’ll open the front door,
Mr. Gabidar runs late for the train.

Outside, the once-full moon begins to wane,
the sky is full of clouds about to pour,
he stands on the platform and prays for rain.

Last night, he drank until it hurt his brain,
because time was something he could ignore,
Mr. Gabidar runs late for the train.

What he loves in life is simple and plain,
the complexity of love leaves him sore,
he stands on the platform and prays for rain.

His wife, deep in sleep, saws against the grain,
little does she know how loud she can snore.
Mr. Gabidar runs late for the train,
she stands on the platform slick with slant rain.

"The Poetic Experience of Corvus corax"

Apparently, without symbolism,
the two ravens discourse about the taste
of blood in light of aestheticism.
They do not mince words, never do they waste
their breath to discuss the sublime in art.
Instead, they talk about gas when they fart
and the bowel movements of dogs when they go
for a walk. Philosopher-ravens know
to speak fondly of the entrails of cows
and to worship Equus, the dark horse-god.
For at the racetrack, over the brown sod,
they have the best seats in front of the rows
of spectators who watch horses bolt past
toward the finish line, their bets all cast.

"In the Palace of Dreams"

Sleep pleases me to no end in the den
with a metronome that counts side to side
like a grandfather clock. On a futon
I dream of a man, like myself, who hides
in the darkness of moonlight and shadow.
Behind a wall, he follows the widow
of Dominic Rosario, Lord Vaz,
a poet from Goa, for whom we pause
the narrative to remember his life.
Or not, for suddenly, the detective
notices two ravens as they arrive
at the convent across the street. The wife
of the deceased poet enters inside
ostensibly to meet my future bride.

"the voice within echoes like a conch shell"

in time, the sound of the sea died away,

the sound lingers in his ears, in his mind

as memory, a staircase that spirals

like a conch shell, the voice within echoes



with the sound of the sea which he carries

in his ears, in his mind as memory,

from his childhood into adulthood, the sound

lingers in his tears, in his spine as song



deep in his heart, the past lingers as sound

the sound of white wash, of rhythm, crashes

on the shores of repetition, the sound

continues to haunt him as memory,



like ghosts that follow him during the night

as shadows, as nightmares, as memory,

as sound that swells in his ears, in his mind,

in time, the sound of the sea died away

Villanelle for Doomed Youth

Mumble Bunny has better things to do
than sit under a tree and read a book.
The boy would much rather visit the zoo.

His step-mother is a hazel-eyed shrew,
a witch who won't give him a second look.
Mumble Bunny has better things to do.

She spends her day looking for a lost shoe,
she expects he'll become a petty crook.
The boy would much rather visit the zoo.

His father simply doesn't have a clue,
a master chef who rarely wants to cook.
Mumble Bunny has better things to do.

His father's suits are of a midnight hue,
he shows his son how to throw a right hook.
The boy would much rather visit the zoo.

Mumble Bunny walks next door, the old Jew,
a rabbi, castles with the king and rook.
The boy would much rather visit the zoo.
Mumble Bunny has better things to do.