Category Archives: Criticism & Commentary

Too Clever by Half, Sonnet #11

by Boinkaz
men often weary of being The Man
an eternal cherished friend–not a stud
having an intellect seen as brilliant
means little when no woman will want you
there was this woman who like some women
wanted to be wanted by wild men
she was smarter than all others, but then
formaldehyde blinded men passed her by again.
once a man who faced a cancerous death
realized, as he drew near his final breath
that his intelligence made it all worse
the disintegration more frightening
intelligence is not wisdom x 3
the price we pay is pain of pedigree
Copyright 2015 by Boinkaz

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Sonnet #2

Reblogged from christinastrigas.wordpress.com

Christina Strigas

If ever anything was true for me

It was your vision I once dreamed about.

It is the way you arose from the sea,

and entered my life filled with more self-doubt.

The changing direction of the soft wind

you walked with a confidence I once knew,

and left your footprints wavering behind.

You spoke with a whisper the faint breeze blew.

If ever anything escaped my life,

it was the words you uttered that bleak day.

You might as well stab my heart with your knife

than abandon my ocean so far away.

I scraped my knees on the sand covered beach

crying out for a touch, kiss or a reach.

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Sonnet #1

Reblogged from christinastrigas.wordpress.com

Christina Strigas

Let us think of a road far off our path,

where we could walk holding hands in full view

and not feel the hatred of other’s wrath

while the letters remain in my pocket too.

Love will be aflame along the grey road

and a subtle caress will become law.

On your back you will carry my full load

sensing the drive in me is purely raw.

The streets will be silent full of false hope,

while our fingertips travel each other’s skin.

If we walk away we will stop at the rope

reach the line that tells us we can never win.

Here is one last wanting thought for your ears

there never was a road filled with these fears.

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On Death,  Sonnet Number 10

by Boinkaz
Death, I’ve smelled the retch of your fetid breath
in laundromats of lost humanity.
I hear your preachings on my daily trail
dum dum choirs sung to a running man’s back.
Some spend their lives in long hallelujahs
or behead us all with fanaticism:
We who dare dissent, who know not to know,
don’t deny the daunting and certain depths of our graves.
Gathered swells of tumbling bells will chuckle
at passings of them, hellbound for sassing.
But as there is comfort in religion
so there is in the husbandry of life.
Morbid wild hair I stroke, pockmarked cheeks I brush
I press my fingers to her lips and whisper: “Hush.”


Copyright 2015 by Boinkaz
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Love Potion, #9

By Boinkaz

Magnolia trees bloom in air you pass through,

a sidelong glance of manicured flowers

pausing briefly on the road to summer.

It’s like your a travel brochure for France

Our thumb-flickered world band radio 

sings among the lemon grove tablecloth.

It squeezes good tendencies from me

you are the cause célèbre of our love life.

If I could package and sell this moment

I’d use skinny little crystal bottles

from that tourist trap island off venice

because customers might get too happy

Is it such a ridiculous notion

to make a million from our love potion?

Copyright 2015 by Boinkaz

Home Improvement, Sonnet #8

By Boinkaz

platinum cyclones of efficient light

ring the earnest blue planets of your eyes

as you speak I walk with you through tiny

terrariums under taped cotton clouds~

Home improvement is a spring intention

not a destination I’ll ever reach

You are so helpful on plasterboard choice

and I have a thing for women in bibs~

The truth is I never fix anything

I just call some guy who then rips me off

If beauty were a flat head screwdriver

then you already disassembled me

I ponder machinations of the heart

Love is like DIY, best not to start.

Copyright 2015, by Boinkaz


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A Naughty Aubade, Sonnet #6

By Boinkaz

the exhalation of the morning hills

beaded breath of sweat splashed across your back

furry dice our weather, fog speckled dots

time for us 2 grind, 2 tectonic plates

our bones crack in the knuckle of the sun

our liquids rise as kisses, moans & fissures

through miasmas of open mouths pour

small dogs of pleasure on spittled leashes

After, I explore maps of your terrain

tsk the stripping by earlier miners

frown on politics that let that happen

as we shrink within our movable skin

rise and pay homage to new kith and kin

a thrill that from cards of defeat we’re dealt

new love on this table of springtime felt.

Copyright 2015 by Boinkaz

Gone

by Boinkaz

America grinds, sonorific land
marching bands twirl subways fast through blurred hands
dusk tiaras cities in fairy light
jumbotrons mutter it’s all you, tonight

hashtag suburbs cry tears of schoolchildren
mongrelized by endless innovation
taught to cater to mawkish tech carnies
their selfies just arm-length, blank, stolen souls.

we jumped from rural bridges as small kids
saluted mummars in tiny clown cars
we fucked along the sun-shawled roads out west
read books of ceremonial murder.

like marbles through a pachinko machine

we play keepsies, but don’t fit in this scene.

Copyright 2015 by Boinkaz

The Trophy Wife

By Boinkaz

dented by snubs, tarnished by sidelong glances

the trophy wife cradles holy water

inside her fault lines and ruptured silver,

then pours a smile to burnish bright my morn.

she spins a hurricane of welcomes

runs fingers through a garden of handclasps

even gracious to my sarcastic Ex,

red with the imprint of life’s open palm.

trophy wife I hoist you above my head

i’ve plucked you like a garland from a champ

experience makes other women wise

yet you suffer my gloating with aplomb.

I lean on a crutch of my younger self

ponder my twilight set upon your shelf.

Copyright 2015 by Boinkaz

Predator X

in the oceans cars
break & glint in the waves
volvos, Big Ford Trucks
olds 88s
& the gran torinos
with long carnivorous snouts for hoods.

As they dive & emerge
bathed in the liquid flesh of the dinosaurs
they have so readily consumed,
muscle greens & reds glistening
with turtle wax & windshield washing fluid.

Cool in their air conditioning
they’re speaking to each other in
a frequency of satellite radio.
Their owners, nested behind wheels
tell themselves that they ain’t descended from no monkeys.

some sailboats
driven out & onto sand
learn to crawl the land
and writhe as they inhale the sun
and clutch at nothing
with organ grinder gills of sail.

their ballast cast
they watch above
as sky churns white,
& the asteroid comes.

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