only roads and rails

and there were only 

roads and rails
a crossroads
beneath a horizon
a dangerous sky
where trees overshadowed
distance
and clouds
in a smoking heaven

Automatic Writing

The automatic poem wrote itself,
its pen, a jumbled board of keys,
a trivial swill of data and, here,
a work of art, soi-disant, appears.

Mine is the Art

Mine is the art of disorderly rhyme
every word broken, begged or borrowed,
every syllable spoken, a token of tomorrow.

activism

won’t take no more
prevarication
time to go for
provocation

Bronzed

I won a war, said one;
I started a war I couldn’t finish, said another,
and we, they said, were cast in bronze…