Feigning in truth and eager in verse  

stonevoiced sonet in a book like
            mortality, to the tune of
            Welcome Back Kotter:  dial
            one eight hundred end
            my pain and don flip flops

compact your bicycle and live
            out of a rusted red chevette:
            this is called “an interior
            life,” the man with the burnt
            tongue mumbles, shimmy into
            panegyric, beware, this is where

the dead cross, and sometimes make
            whooppee, like to shadows--don’t
           crane your neck, and blow on the ink
           before you turn the page, this is the happiest part of summer’s fame...










This poem first appeared in Taverner's Koans