Were There Lonely Pole Dancers During The Polar Vortex?

April is a tramp
I’d testify
A Spring tease
A climate whore
A rent boy still working
that cold side of the street

April sports some leg
of ankle high flower
while still wrapped
and muffled in

That Hag
of a winter
too bitter
to ghost

So go on!

Post your poesy
of promise
of renewal

I’m gonna dot and dash the doggerel, until
that last windchill

poem 8 April 8 2014


I’m not sure I’m all in with Eliot’s sobriquet about April, but I do know, here in Chicago, we just lived through the coldest consecutive four months in Windy City weather record keeping history. So April can’t tart it up soon enough. I’m not wishing for record highs, but some mid-thigh hemline breezes would work right about now.

And speaking of doggerel. Embrace the word slinger. Jump up and down on an interior rhyme, or find that damn near prefect imperfect eye rhyme. All victories.

Is anybody out there slinging it, and having the fun this April.

Curse the verse and giggle at pretension, few are dropping words with any permanence. But then again, who knows. Just don’t write to the future, poem the present, note the mood, moon and June, and swoon to swan songs with finger snaps and bongo rim shots, and bounce “The Beats” and treat yourself by laughing at how you conjure and attempt to communicate that magic.

Now you see it. Now you don’t. Word Slinging is a shell game.

I scribbled what follows more than a decade ago and it shocked me to appreciate, embrace, and relish the doggerel;


my creative flow
is just below
a buckle of
good intentions

starts gung-ho
that creative flow
peters out
in soft circumventions

my ruminative woe
trumps stimulative go
and chuckles at
native pretensions

my creative flow
is thusly below
a belt holding up
my conventions

This says nothing really, or all of it being silly, and OK, April may be the cruelest month but it don’t mean we can’t dance.


I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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