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free-range poets
roam the yards
flock to the sound
of an opening door
hoping for scraps
tossed our way
tasty, random, diverse
cluck and quibble
scrabble in life's compost pile
double-scratch for juicy tidbits
snatch...
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New Muses for a Posthuman Age
Late last year I wrote a 10 sonnet sequence entitled New Muses for a Posthuman Age, the idea being to update the goddesses and answer...
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Through the cracked visor, the world warps—
a funhouse mirror of ruin.
Behemoth coils across the horizon,
talons raking earth’s bones.
Houses exhale splintered beams;
chimneys thrust skyward: cenotaphs...
