in Poetry

In the age of the meme
story can turn mean and
often the poem a propaganda

text as tattletale, like a dry
snitch on the veranda …
a prescript
of Esprit de l’escalier
raising the curtain on a colloquy
of pretext
dystopia spoken by
speakers sentenced
to a solitary

Poor punkable players all

And that goes double for,
Yours Truly


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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