4 Liner


No woman should be President, the men
assert, lest we be ruled by estrogen.
And I in asking this may be alone:
Where have we gotten through testosterone?

Political Poem

political poem

This state put subdivision on the map,
designed more traffic arteries, suburbs,
redesignated dead end cul-de-sac,
and made the freeways frequent. It disturbs
the symmetry – our huge diversity
a manatee that swamps a plate of prawns
that cluster near Long Island on a quay:
the West has water wars; the East has lawns.

If we could subdivide the state in three,
we theorize we’d better spend our lives.
We’d part north-center-south so naturally:
divide the baby and the kid survives.
“Too big to flourish and too large to fail”
is purchased with economies of scale.

Old Glory

At freeway speed the flags are bound to fray:
appended to antennas like the crests
of gaudy parrots, signaling the way
to be American. Within our breasts
our arteries constrict, our hearts are shrunk;
without we hang from us the stripes and stars.
Exchanging motion for emotion, drunk
on crude, we manifestly deck our cars.

Beneath disputed territory, pools
await the tap of human enterprise.
There’s compound sludge and salts – all fossil fuels –
and everybody knows it, for the spies
have taught economists – they trace the curves
of battle-lines above the world’s reserves.