He who made a molehill
out of a neglected mountain before turning his eyes and interest elsewhere westward,
staring defiantly at the retreating sun, was never one to mix metaphors with antimatter.
His appetite remains wet. His hunger grows glistening fangs. His pores now pour as his
curiosity peeks. He wonders who baited his breath with anchovies. Alas, there’s no
pudding to proof this claim. It has nothing to do with time’s flying incessant buzz. Or
waltzing on poached eggs. Nor is it a widdle in a haystack or the exact answer to how
many ways a cat may be skinned alive. (See Planck’s area). Or was that a mongoose?
Non possums. It matters not since it isn’t part of any sheep’s pluck recipe. Teeth
optional. Taste buds not needed. Limited synapse transmission a must. Apply within.
That slow train a-comin’ ran you over miles ago. You may have seen the brakeman
waving his red caboose. Even the cowcatcher cared not for your presence, though the
last man to see you did grudgingly acknowledge your inconvenient presence.
Post-Covid, the author has returned as the writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub in Baltimore. Among his other pubs: conjunctions, Vanderbilt Review, Southern Quarterly, Free State Review, Hollins Critic, Misfit Magazine, Loch Raven Review, The Avenue, New Orleans Review, & Burningword. He’s the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press, 1992), and wrote the libretto for the symphony, Of Sea and Stars (2005). He was a finalist in the 2019 Dogwood Literary Prize in Poetry. His 200th Prose poem was recently published.
Fixator Press 