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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Tuesday, 02 March 2010 17:09 |
Ibkek sits idly by
the meadow's green and varied blooms,
paid only inattention.
He, not minutes passing nigh,
envies but this bumble
who black-and-gold buzzes onward
with purposeful zags. "She fits
so nicely here," he mumbles.
"Why, even duller drones,
though weak and puny, have a place."
The worker, she might envy
Ibkek this, his freedom's moan
to fritter life drinking,
but busy harvests push instead
her bee-bound thoughts, set upon
a queen's idyllic kinking. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Tuesday, 02 March 2010 17:07 |
The current threat level is
an abstractly arranged orange,
according to this not-so-human
voice squawking on behalf of
my all-too-human government.
It's for everyone's protection.
Outside the airport windows,
greater Baltimore squats against
Tuesday's sky, suspiciously solid
in its concrete pour of gray.
She's coy on when things might brighten
again. I'll have to wait with my bags,
unattended and unsure
whether old homes can ever feel
as homey. I make do pretending
someone has swapped those two colors. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Thursday, 18 February 2010 12:37 |
Hectored by the pit-a-patter
of frozen pellets, you might hear
these dented eaves wheeze and sneeze
lubricious comparisons, but
it's a thickly frosted fiction
that their bulbous white noses
look anything like eggshells.
In springtime's crick-cracking they will
however birth a frog with not
so princely disposition:
Hacksaw in hand, he'll eye
your roommate and that footlocker
where she keeps invaluables
of an oddly personal nature.
His plan is to hip-hoppity leave
you red-faced, trying to calm
this panicked friend with un-fairy
tales of a burglar amphibian
who muttered of moral decay,
mis-fabled crowns, and the strangeness
of saved fingernail clippings. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Tuesday, 02 March 2010 17:10 |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Tuesday, 02 March 2010 17:06 |
Lucifer's Cardinals are blowing pink smoke
again. They've picked their ping-pong pontiff,
to the joy of throngs watching patient brick stacks
remotely on brightly monitored feeds.
The Chosen One, festooned in a make-shift,
milk-carton miter plastered with photos
of never-lost souls, climbs atop His Coke-can
throne to declare, "I'm likable law made flesh!"
Then, this dystopic pope, turning to His scroll
wailer, sotto voce warns, "I am a weakish
speller, but read it as best you can,"
and hands her a paper-clipped parchment.
Catty smile petting her with purrs of "nice
smug me," the tonsil-crowned crier takes it
and leaps to heroes glide down where His nonsense
cannon of ten misrules is to be revealed.
Meanwhile, back up on Earth, Man — a rag
doll in hand and aching from the expert prick
of voodoo-dabbling God's exactingly pinned
scraps, all wincing "Who do you think you are?" —
Approaches the coaxial saint who sits in
a simulated wood-grain box and beams
beacons of haloed pixels phishing for fools
in search of non-queasy forgiveness.
Man fits to a T-S-A that anesthetic
profile. He pulls from his pocket prescriptions
slipped to him by back-alley preachers
with promises of a tidier healing.
For a few coins, he gets his video-dispensed
penance: the rosary of disposable beads
he'll rub once, toss, then return to that life
perpetually stuck on truancy. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Thursday, 18 February 2010 12:27 |
This misbegotten spoke of
rueful light, having been
kicked from his unclean-too
sheltering by the bully-
bruised sky, exhausts himself
repeating ungallant falls
into winter-wronging crowds.
Thick disapproval oozes
out an aural complaint
punctuated with amber
clots, ensnaring the flippant
and the shifty but to fix
their toady meanings inside
polished globules of today. |
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