Author: cfblack
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Pinnochio’s nose
Russian Roulette fool’s game bullet in the cylinder which one? Maskless COVID-19 sprays droplets random involuntary inoculations who’s next? Ranting Maniac warrior king imaginary bone spurs cured he’s still a coward Russian Puppet Putin laughs pulls strings, makes him dance grows his nose Mister Geppetto sawdust brains never was or will be a man strike…
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on the day after the anniversary of the 1000-year flood
sitting in the chill he wears a jacket over his shirt sweat pants, socks with shoes believes he wears bare essentials but under it all a naked chest, flaccid penis bare feet that wish to run like the wind beneath and above the he of him, treads memories flooding streets outside his door toddler in…
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Old coffee
Years ago, I had a secretary Who’d lecture me on coffee cup hygiene Wash away weeks of hard earned residue I’d tell her coffee was too weak That old coffee added just enough flavor To the Folgers in my cup She’d walk back to her desk, mutter You can make the coffee tomorrow Next day,…
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Church of glowing wood
October autumn night moonlight and street lamps we gather in the side yard with friends around a fire Offer fallen wood to the dark smell smoke….. incense for the dead, the dying and those who tend the dying before it is their time As folks rise to go home we offer virtual handshakes, bank embers,…
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Translucent rags
After everyone had gone home only the pulsating glow of embers remained. I watched a possum walk through the yard. A woman appears in the chair next to me, wild hair, dressed in translucent rags that moved in a wind I could not feel. She says the moon is beautiful, I reply I cannot see…
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October’s slaying moon
Because night’s chill lingers in morning shadows I step off our porch, sit in light upon an old brick wall Listen as a cadenced beat portends the pillage of red stained leaves piled up upon the ground 10-3-20
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a question for the next Presidential debate
If your maskless arrogance Slays your child Or slays the child of another Is that murder in the first degree Or negligent homicide America debates the question 10-3-20
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poem before dying
Lorca wrote of roosters, of eating cemetery grass, of weeping little boys, of snow, of guitars, of murder, of women dropping off to sleep, of a resurrection that will never come, and he makes me weep. I write of barking dogs and feral cats, of trash on asphalt courts, of weeping little boys, of warm…
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shadow
at sunrise you cast a long shadow unable to discern it shrinking at your feet you stare anyway come midday it grows again and disappears come night fall 10-1-20
