3 More Riddles

“Bleeding for each word
and sometimes feathered, like a bird.”

“Without a mouth I scream and shout,
but I am not angry as I shove you about.”

“Without teeth I hungrily feed,
eating whatever I may touch,
breathing black breath as I breed
and hissing when I drink too much.”

Poems About Words

Legalese
Like a hoodoo spell that is spoken
to protect the capitalist sort
when the make-believe rules are broken—
it’s mumbo-jumbo upheld in court.

Liability
The ability for a lawyer
to assess the litigious peril
of employing a young Tom Sawyer
in a Niagara Falls barrel,
and in so assessing such a stake
of recompense owed to the father
if the barrel be of a bad make
and Tom Sawyer should drown in water.

Clusterfuck
Another thot-themed poet
with half of her cleavage bare
just so she can show it,
goosebumps perky from cool air.
Her fans gather to riot
and quick-click a thirsty Like,
if they could they’d buy it,
loving her poem posts— psyche!
They are a cluster of frogs
congregating around her,
scrambling with their key logs
to Like and Share and #her.

Cultural “Appropriation”
A whirling, bottomless rabbit hole
that spins with vacancies down beneath
sediment of history, the soul
of Mankind and all it may bequeath.
The plaintive winds rally and tear loose
all that a person might want to wear,
all they might think, the words they might use,
until they haven’t sufficient air
to speak, to breathe, their voices destroyed,
then their clothes, too, torn apart, now nude
as they shiver in the frigid void
their core now but clay made brittle, crude
without history, meaning, context—
a golem dormant, lifeless, perplexed.
Meanwhile the whirling voices still rise,
whipping up the harshest gusts anew,
concentrated from thunderous skies:
the bottomless hole a stagnant stew,
a vortex deep, Charybdian throat,
flushing down all that has come before,
all that is near and all more remote:
Mankind reduced to a hollow core.

Overfull

I am grasping at stones
in this lake,
not with my lumberjack’s hands,
but with a little girl’s curiosity,
wondering how this dreamy-eyed
Woolf
drowned in this water,
her belly full of rocks
and her naked Albion body
wrapped in a red cloak, a red
hood
with pockets full of
bitter chocolate biscuits.
I cannot retrieve these six stones
from the waves
and must find my own,
following the stream of
thought
to the lighthouse
so I might dissemble it
stone by stone
to build a room
of my own
wherein to while away the
hours
before the rabble
drives me to drink.