Banal

I wish I could say it were some choice Brunello.
Something or other di Montalcino
in these rolling hills of Tuscany.
But a poet’s golden token
only goes so far,
and what’s it worth
for bowtie noodles?

I didn’t have the nose to sip it sitting in my rotten sock drawer bitter as my broken esophagus.

A finer kind of whine
might sigh more sweetly
in refined pedantic meter.
A better brand than sea-sick indigestion—
but what is in a name?
The wine-dark Atlantic
divides my fart in twain.

Light

I open the gate
that leads to the future,
and step into Tuesday.
It gets on my shoe.

A littlest bit
of eternalest evening
creeping away
escapes from this poem.
Cryptic as night.

The brightest polyptych
piece I’ve yet seen
sitting on my toilet
depicts me a scene
of one little bow tie.
Broken in one piece.

It flips through the years
like channels online,
slips out of sight,
and of silence.
My fishes have rights.

I won’t write the name
signed by the painter
with the upper right conner
in invisible ink.

Today has just finished.
It truly is Tuesday
scraping my shoelace,
A vision of light.