Sunday, January 27, 2013


A rainbow spread of
Serial transgression

The cheery yellow flag of
Minor sins:
The blade that won’t
Hold weight
The cord unblessed by armorer, the
The hand carelessly strayed into
Forbidden ground
Absconding from the strip
Without a pass
Silken locks burst loose and
Tumbling down the back

The rosy blush of shame for
Greater gaffes:
Grasping at the blade as it collides with hand
Faking cramps
Lurking in anonymity, lamé conspicuously
Innocently shutting down opponent’s march by
Timing out…the floor
Raking in the dough by advertising Badger Balm
Upon the sleeve (I wish)
Delivering a bell guard to the snoot
(No matter how provoked)

And Blackest Black, Beyond the Pale—the Deepest Dark of Night:
Sneaking a mic into
The mask
Balking at a foe too loathsome to
Throwing the game
Withholding courtesy
Trying to cause harm

The system generously grants penance to
Bystanders needing grace as well:
Continued catcalls,
Obstreperous support or
(Ignoring reprimand)
Repeated hassling of the ref

All these penalties comprise
A winning hand
Tucked into blazer pocket
Ready to deploy
Elevating our authorities above the
Hoi polloi


Brown bread smells like loam, like
Like garden mulch

Pumpernickel’s sour snap
Waits for mustard bite

Rye’s seedy strength, bearing up the
Fatty weight of beef

Dense focaccial spring
Thick with cheese

Dour Russian black bread begs for
Sweet butter, thinly spread
Radish slices, salt

Supple silken warmth of fresh tortilla
Dunked in guac

Sugared crisp of fruit-nut bread
Thinly sliced in toasted bliss

Even pita’s cardboard mimicry

Flood my recollection with each step
Down the bakery aisle

Past the cornucopian cases
Breathing deep of wheat

Condemned to timid crumble, unsupported loft
I devour the past