For all the poem-things that don’t deserve their own page, but you might want to find quickly . . .
Vignette, Vinaigrette
I put a vignette on my salad.
I place all my Hopes in the tome.
I eat grilled thesaurus for breakfast.
The literary land is my home.
* * *
Upon Reading Too Much Tennyson
Alas, I knocked you from my side.
Oh, pencil, pencil! Dearest pencil!
I search for you with hand prehensile
For without you I shall die.
Oh, pencil, pencil, used with stencils!
Fallen are you from my sight
But still I need graphite tonight!
Return to me my fine utensil!
* * *
Moby-Dick the Haiku
White Whale ate him leg.
He dark hatred swallowed whole.
Everybody die.
* * *
It
It has one eye.
It crawls like a silent serpent into every tale I tell.
It wraps around each object and each man like a shadow of uncertainty.
It cannot be defined by what it is or what it’s not,
But it carries a mystery that disturbs and attracts.
What is it?
I cannot tell you.
But it has one eye.
* * * (NOTE: this poem is about the word “it,” in case you were wondering.)
