the INLAID EAR

I’ll | to my story, though it |s in my craw. Judge, I wound up on the wrong side of the |. I always tried to | to the letter of the law, but my |-to-it-iveness just didn’t do the trick. I got stuck in a |y job—carrot and |— the CEO’s nose always |ing the air. He said we had to | together, thin or thick— while he was |ing it up the Boards’ derrieres. His fudges started |ing out like sore thumbs, and the Feds began to | their noses in. He told ‘em were to | it, but those guys ain’t dumb. They knew business wasn’t straight than a |pin. I got stuck stacking |ers in a stark stockroom to keep me from |y questions and news hype. If I struck the powder, I didn’t mastermind the boom; and, Your Honor, you can | that in your pipe. I’m a |-in-the mud accountant. I’m not a crook. I’m not trying to | it to the man or get rich quick. | around, and | with me—I’ll open up the books. If we throw enough mud, some is going to |.

The poet makes no warranty that he or she treats of any single, objective, accurate or essential truth about her or her own poem except in the poem itself. Additional or contradictory interpretations by others may be reasonably given equal or greater credence.

HEADS OR TAILS, RICHARD? By FangO and Alice's artist friend, Kurt, flipped and worried a silver dollar the whole time we ambled around Manhattan, bumblebeeing into art galleries and revolutionary bookstores. Coming out of one, Kurt chatted up a Texan woman who was picking up her rejected charcoal nudes. She was a flat-out nut, I reckoned, though Kurt and Alice enjoyed splashing in the flow of her quick drawl of scandalous international narrative. Had she been local, richer and only slightly more balanced, Kurt could have stacked another possible crash pad on the three he has standing by. Spiv, that's a Scrabble word I love. One who lives by his or her wits. One day, Kurt, your figures will be billboard sized. They may as well be, but will you be heads up or tails up by then? *** This in response to poetic asides prompt "answer poem."

(untitled) She's been thinking about things that don't need thinking This gives her the sensation that the rink sinks inches at a time whenever she launches a leap--a wince pinches her skates. For the klutz who learned triple Lutz, a great deflation--smack-- cold reminder of the bindings in her locker. Her back iced, she bounces up, thrusts her body, her choice, noise of crowd sigh, disappointment at the points lost. To be or not to be nigh eighteen, a mother or a medalist--shake the thought, chase momentum ignore the devil. *** This in response to Robert Brewer's weekly prompt at poetic asides, with the direction to start a poem with a line drawn from his notebook. I am submitting from the road, in New York, where we went skating in Long Island with our cousins, one of whom is a competitive ice skater. Being at the rink, and having watched her videos, and some performances of other local champs, put me in the setting of this po-narrative. So...

I really feel good about this interview at In Our Books Here are some reasons why: I'm proud of the poem " this glamorous profession " that won the contest there and garnered the interview . I'm pleased with what I wrote for the interview. I think Ina Roy and Andrea Heiberg have a really beautiful blog going. I love the look and feel of it, and I really enjoy their posts. I'm tickled at the strange conflux of influences that led me to discover a poem that I very much like—it's a found poem, born out of the writings of Patrick Sokas . I won 50 kroner for my poem! Signed, Your Humble Host, Linky McLinkerson Here's the poem:  “this glamorous profession” after Patrick Sokas, M.D. Bill took an interest in my suit. “Where did you get it?” I looked at my feet and mumbled. “I have one just like it.” I glared. “This was my only suit, a mail-order suit.” “You probably saw a picture on a model.” “It looked good, th...

I, Daniel, am planning a spread Of humus, falafel and bread; And since my own pate Is smooth as a plate, I’ll serve it on top of my head. *** Who rocks the limericks? Mad Kane rocks the limericks!

Left and found “To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.” —Cheslaw Milosz The worst interview of my life: I want the memory to stop slapping me in the forehead. I would have been a teacher, but the three-day introduction at the art school in the mountains fell like bear shit in snow. I got shut and shy, retriggered faults, sat with the maintenance staff instead of my future fellows because it was the first seat I saw in the strange dining hall. My friend who’d opened the door for me stopped meeting my eyes. The last morning, I slipped away like a whisper through the snow, hazarding the icy roads to leave. The teachers—they had put me with the one boy who was not fitting in thinking, perhaps, we could help each other. I believe in redemption, so I’ll go back into that time with skis and with honey, with sage and age, a candle and a poem. I’ll let my body untangle the monkey puzzle, ...