TO WALT WHITMAN

I cannot travel within your hours

Your seagulls don’t resemble the ones I see

But your large perception

That eccentric, strong, silent swagger

Your words could sustain an ox

Regrow a thick pine that had lost its vigour

Your glory was thinking aloud

Thoughts floating in your frisky bearded smile

Reducing or enhancing all angelic cherubs

To appear like cheap Christmas decorations

Blessed is your heart

Your iris spit infects your ink

Leaving no defacement upon our common air

Though I have never folded your Leaves

And need not

THANKS TO THE THIEF

The right man has been cornered.

His freedom quietly lost,

not five minutes hence

he enjoyed the smoky frost

against his cheek

as a devoted wanderer

of dime stores.

Pocketing the arbitrary trinket,

he strode crookedly towards the exit.

It was an item that no one cared to spare

a thought towards.

He did the proprietor a favour

by purloining such stock,

by offering space

where the customers did

but wince.

Now the browsers did not miss

the garish contrast

between the poorly-carved cherubs

and the opulent chandeliers,

as they noted the distance

between trash and pomp.

The foolish man gave a value

that superseded the stolen item

with its counterfeit charm.

CENTRAL THROB

not quite sure

what against

my head did crash

or what did shift

my equilibrium

to bitumen

or sand

from pickled wakefulness

to shifty drink dawning

absolving people

to become acquainted

with their knees

and to see their faults

as if another’s

to see their girl behind

in another’s dress

hair and rings