Weekly Sonnet 4

In the event that (our) fantastic (town) should turn to erosion

(And) All they knew was the name, friends—the U-
nited States of America. (the wrong
words make) The United States of Amer-
ica. This experiment cannot err!
(you listen in this criminal) We all
know that something is “gave” eternal. “proof

through the night that our” (world. Remember) She
breaks down (it’s true loyalty is valu-
able) sobbing. The lights dim [Miss Webb, aloof]
on the left half of the stage. “can you see?”
(but our lives) [deepest grief, George hymns along]
bitingly: Now you know! (are valuable
too.) (’Cause we’ll never say any)―Malt?―No.
(thing nice again, will we?) What do you know!

Weekly Sonnet 3

National Continuity

It makes us sound like we’ve become a poor-
ly mixed syrup flavored latte; sunken
sugars bluntly stated at the last sip

Our selfish individualism
easily lends itself to threats. (Wherefore?)
Cyclically reciprocal ones make
the world churn, spin. Do you remember when
the headless God searched and everywhere was slip-
pery goo, when touched would bridge the schism
between death and life (for ourselves, we may—
near the end of Mononoke-hime?

In the dark, sweet icing melts down a cake.
Frances Townsend has fulfilled an ample
American Dream: the ideal sample.

Weekly Sonnet 2

MMDs (double em dees)

How yeastly they did come and vex us so!
Or not, to match their insentient want.
Let your watch ease and stumble upon them
Divinely. Do know their appearance though.

Try to fix (y)our motives around (but can’t
Really) a guise of existence for Fear
Unanimously. (They’re Atkins-friendly?)
Tell us, now, are they ’neath a Sunni’s hem?
Help us, heaven too. (Add oil, slowly sear.)

Faith and deception guides us through the lie.
(Understand morels aren’t mushrooms at all.)
Let’s be rational; let the facts appall.
Look at Schrödinger’s cat; ’tis living, hence!
Yes, but also could be proof of absence.

Weekly Sonnet 1

Mark David Chapman, Buddha and I

Sitting in your Attica cell waiting
for another chance to be free, as last
October was fruitless. Your unforgiv-
able action still brings to mind people-
shooting hats, clutching “Within You, Without

You.” Sit I-don’t-know-where as a lotus
glides along the surface of a still riv-
er, coyly telling us to undo past-
present-and-future. Materials pull
all back to now, possession is about

me, as I’ve never had Robituss-
in, not that way, still can’t help from fainting
post-lotus position, wanting to quit
being; I’m getting goddam sick of it.