Tag Archives: Ecology




Leviathans suffer willingly the wastes of lessers with the spoils
Of forage in awe of their minions’ rout. Leavings
Of forests—minutia in the seas—objects in multitudes of breeding
In billions lay as quarry; breathing only halts the intake, precious oils
And storage founts in awful majesties as but bubbles will numb the foils
Of the deep with little thought of being prey; no other path is possible as to seek
Escape evaporates in the stupor of the stampede and mindless feed,
Ephemeral images of affrighted numbers and omnipresence. The serpent coils,
As consternation’s measured to the length of ineffectual peers
And in the chaos and confusion, venom—the elixir of a momentary sun—
And mere instinct lights the way for both hunter and hunted, in tandem
For the hunted, “In sæcula sæculorum,” say the hunters
In deft detection; great ones of the kelp and boiling seas remain true,
The enemy of few, so much the reward, relentless, so limitless the purview.


“I’m Not So Cavalier”


“I’m Not So Cavalier”

I’m not so cavalier, you see; I’ve heard, I’ve lent a hand and bowed
To acid rains and lurid wastes and elements stacked,
Deranged, spewed, sprawled and rearranged, and I’ve attacked
And married Buicks, Saabs, and Fords and I’m not so very proud;
My many homes are bought and sold with not a thought
To living in them. Mine eyes have seen the glory of a myriad of pulpits,
Certified accountants and a pride of priests whose pious culprits’
Books are cooked in scarlets, blood-gelt orders in their sanctities taught
To serve the venal equinox between the self-sequestered fetid clans
In every land who have no ticket, pass, nor ever need to walk
When they can ride, nor ride when they can darn the stocks
That fuel the jet streams’ markets, currencies, and family plans
To lengthen gas lines leading lambs to houses built more or less on sand;
Three coins tossed in every fountain is the trend
while the Fed and Humpty Dumpty transcend The Wall Street Journal briefly
just before they hit the fan.

4 T

“The Body’s Built for Stretch Marks


“The Body’s Built for Stretch Marks

The body’s built for stretch marks, peculiars, indictments drawn from lines
Reserved for bruises, random ancient scars received at childhood,
Subtle abuses leading to arrests, differences in the artificer’s sketches, would-be
Blind catastrophe to a child bound for trial. Etchings, wounds, fine
Byzantine rites of passage penetrate the masses gathered in their schools
Of fantasies as testacies: for the ignoble, pastimes; the chosen, noble death
Certain. Pride of station, booty, brazen badges pinned to what is left
Of that old shirt or those old pants, and in the end, the glass is raised to fools,
And myriad mirrors of Alma Maters. “Yes,” she said, “Lose that baby fat,
She said, but she was lying as she sliced another quarter pound of butter
For the stir fry as dairies churn to pave the way for satisfaction and utter
Joy at dinnertime for the calf, an unction for the stomach, a hardening heart,
Vanitas sanitarium omnia vanitas, and then some for the cat.
All is vanity if clutching at the straws of life, luck and liberty to boot
To generate bravado in hopes that render all his finite questions moot.

“They Make Such Declarations”


“They Make Such Declarations”

They make such declarations, don’t they? They bet their lives
On all that seems and we’re inclined to give
Them credit for’t, and…perhaps they’re right, but then of course we live
As they do, fully eased, appeased, pleased to put on and off expressions
as if they were utensils, knives, or possibly wives.
Production far exceeds demand as the sanctified continue to enjoy eternal noons
In the world’s latest game. Do the math, then, friends; numbers, bounties burn by definition into wastes along warm Brazilian shores
Invoking freedoms—as we who have are wont to do—
Through eternally bloated days. With upraised palms,

the intensity of incense fails to mask telltale odours.
Miles beneath, the ooze’s upward bound, vapours restive here and there,
And as the Titans yawn, Rio bellows, shaking gown and hair
In all directions, scattering the saints of more than latter days, who dared
Her only yesterday to state her case, and lay her precious assets bare.
Migrants in the fault-lines smile, regarding who must rise and fall,
but when the prayers have ceased and denizens of Baghdad weep
Surely, even Isis bleeds. Her boils drained, her coffers fleeced,
She voids another thousand suns before she sleeps.

Brazil v Germany: Semi Final - 2014 FIFA World Cup Brazil

“The Streets of Montréal”


“The Streets of Montréal”

The streets of Montréal are empty now.
The neighbouring labouring winter lingers as the bus stops sigh.
Procrastination signs in odd displays of petulance at what must come south
From colder, darker Hudson nights as ice rusts earlier every year in forests; as if reminding us of reasons for early thaw. North from sales
In Southern giveaways the multi-fronts wave greetings from so many hills away;
Flight lanes set by geese suggest a conscious prodigeous delay
As newscasts and conspiracy reports have some little to say of chemtrails
As heckling sunspots’ hour to hour display for weather wearied eyes
Not at all concerned with what’s for dinner but everything to gain as teams
Of salvage crews prey along New England’s ocean shores. Reams
Of information on the cable news hours’ finely honed cyclones surface lies
And cries of what’s in Gaia’s oven and what on earth is all that’s going down
As BP Oil’s politicians in shameless self-promotion make their
usual strident claims that bolster bookies and talk show hosts placing bets
on just exactly when, not if the Mississippi rises next
and what, not whom coastline levies drown.


“We Will to Live”


“We Will to Live”

We will to live while millenia roam across the boards.
Our stage remembered, drowned in memory becomes a swamp and thence
A wounded star across the bow where builders’ knives repair the fence
And perforate the hitherto unknown. The undisturbed pristine moors’
Natural madness gives but just enough to inhale and to support
The failing pale of flora, fauna, and here and there, perhaps in offence
Placed more for decoration forming little ordre, no defence
But room enough for families and peculiars to the tribe, the core
Of some unlikely future nation’s border war
Or pages in a glossy geographic monograph. For pretence
Of pattern or the need for fillers in poetic license
Some there are of gifted verbal genius with almost nothing to support
Save these, the lessons of the pasts engaged for mass seduction
In a world that has no end, no greater need than pure and simple reproduction.

“Three Seconds”


“Three Seconds”

Three seconds to midnight and some decision
Rests on where the sun lies.
Someone there beyond irrational skies
Says it’s time to rethink revisions
In the rhythm, a shift in keys, camouflaged divisions
In the lighthouse. Seductions blind the eyes
To icebergs in retreat as volcanic sulphurs advertise
The truth and souls prepare for sanctity and circumcision.
Two seconds and again the Star will make His move,
The Prodigal. His flock devoured, He concludes His fast
To claim His bride while tyrants cry, “I cannot breed!”
In one last united choking, all souls that bleed
For freedom like eagles in the heights above prove
The strength of dawn at first and all humanity at last.





Conspiracy there is to think; it rains again today.
Summer’s here and’s gone and here and disappeared once again.
Nothing settles in for long, and commitments dissipate.
And who, then, doubts there’s been a change?

Dollars fluctuate and markets soar and no one’s sane
Enough to shed the price of gold; and in the pack―Queen of Spades
Or Jack of Diamonds―are priceless pawns and easy gain

And loss to fools with pedigrees to match the season’s rain.
Fire’s in the West; flood’s, the East; and as for the chatelaine,
The fevers never cease in the station of the gravy train.
And who, then, doubts there’s been a change?


“So Goliath the Proportions”

A Catalogue

“So Goliath the Proportions”

So Goliath the proportions, so small the stone
That in the hands of a single upstart
Derail the plan, the science and the art.
Just so, the protocol of all within the home
And in the workplace, and in the greater
And lesser notes of the finest filigree
Or within the bowels of a diamond. Tree rings
Record a tale of atavistic misfits and golden satyrs.
Centuries, as well sign the same glad tune
And as the planet warms and swarms of pundits chant
A melody of surest knowledge, the icebergs rant
And bellow as they roll like rune
Stones in the seas neglecting reassurances
That the truth is one and not expressed in nuances.


Reprise: “True Enough, the Politicians Sigh”


“True Enough, the Politicians Sigh”

True enough, the politicians sigh, elections foil
Attempts to rectify the situation leaving choices
Fit for fools and all solutions moot, their voices
Shrill, and rarely if at all do waters yield and boil
At temperatures that formerly marked
The limits of glory’s shores. Even as we speak the seas
Have rushed the gates where now the rivers bleed,
And Arctic glaciers once so permanent, so parked
Reveal the reason for which Greenland was sired
And in the time of ancient Viking sagas so aptly named.
Nothing’s new that was not there before the present maimed
And mauled, reframed, and rearranged, frayed and admired
Its tasteless tableaux in conspicuous waste
to the end that no one breathes
A word who is not cursed or blessed while all the azure planet grieves.