Category Archives: Uncategorized

Lake Effect (Sonnet No. 13) 

Copyright 2015 By Boinkaz

impassioned glaciers fled a sweating sun,
five lakes & megafauna in its wake.
ray-ban rocks, rippled hats tied tight to chin.
white carpetbags cast akimbo in chunks.

now new terminals & mist-muffled dams
flip ships from ports with pinball precision
in chains of custody 6 fathoms deep.
shorelines pass, browning mouths of broken towns.

like horse, mastadon, camelop fossils
they perished gazing at the horizon.
soon warm bayfront windows will open
to excavations of boats & swimsuits.

But for now lake affect snow crests to waves
and winter dead lie stacked for spring graves.

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Personal Cougar

Lyrics, Copyright 2015 by Boinkaz

🎼Autumn trees and laughing pouts
sun snaked hudson slinking south
And Staten Island Ferry dawns
This is a New York wave.

She moved like butter through her day
a clever lady twice my age
sidestepping the serrated grave
that comes with middle-age.

Past lives exist to still our minds
crossroads that we have crucified
a quiet cottage by the sea
or lovers lost on winds of time

Age roulette is played by some
love gamblers dream they’ll show the young
how passion’s knots are tied and slung
til tears and arches fall

Our ashes are the sweeper’s keep
and though our time is brief we seek
to sow at least what we have reaped
with one to love who loves.

Past lives exist to still our minds
crossroads that we have crucified
a noisy party on the street
with lovers lost on winds of time.

Horizontal desperation
this must be life’s sexless station
I look better dressed than naked
pater familias me.

I shot my personal cougar
with my sarcasm and my youth
my vicious tongue, a hunting gun,
I’m sure she never missed.

It’s true that now I know her plight
my darling cougar of the night
for I myself am known to prowl
among the dynamite.

New lives exist to still our minds
crossroads that we will crucify
with misdirection so well spent
with lovers on new winds of time🎼

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The Abominable Loinfruit , #12

By Boinkaz
Arms lithe, hands writhe, kissed at tips to a mai
hair gilded straw over ivory skin.
You spun from beach rings of rucksack and toke
emerged from a puff of arabesque smoke.

Weak force this gravity that binds objects
past beauty to the teepee of the loins.
Ovoid dying star, your fertility
collapsed to sobs of supernova child.
I looked at the kid and hoped it worth it
to sacrifice our life and all, you know,
for dissolution and irrelevence.
Typical man, you said, rolling your eyes.

“I’ll get you for that, hissed our progeny.
“Dying, you’ll beg for the morphine you need.”

Copyright 2015 by Boinkaz
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Valediction #7

By Boinkaz

as you dissolve into complacency

a state of being known as adulthood

carry forth the keystone in your young hearts

you, National Honor Society

inductees of the coming school year.

Your strangulation shirts and wobbly heels

show your dedication to dictums

that a student learns, a scholar has learned….

In this world obedience is held dear

bully-boys say the law is in their mouth

which is why you must disobey, for fear

your rights mean nothing-seize them from the louts

their violence is the only constant here

Scholars, this country is you. Wake up now.

Copyright 2015 by Boinkzz

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Channel, No. 5 

By Boinkaz

for a man who expired here online

face in the keyboard, his hand to his chest

his corpse oiled in pale monitor light 

cubicled mausoleum, I suppose

there is no good cemetery online

no crematorium to cook him in

the living mingle here with the deceased

their faculties professional adjuncts

We channel them through appropriate poems

conjure them in crowds we once frequented

I think that it’s good that we keep them near

and a shame Americans ignore death

they flick the remote once you leave their lives

passing swiftly twitter totem accounts.

Copyright 2015 by Boinkaz

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Energy, Sonnet #4

By Boinkaz

tantric automatic garage yoga

door glow from its kundalini lingers

now that the SUV has been withdrawn

it proved that it can fly and then closed~

you left the house knocked backward on its pose

those stairs will never miss you, I glare

as green bananas soften, tan to mush,

plucked huddled bunches of tropical tribes~

human time differentials are so short

splitting the tight atom of a whole day

this is the strongest law of nature’s tort

energy transforms, as it did with us.

I’m not elated with you, nor destroyed.

Copyright 2015 by Boinkaz

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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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The Second Coming

© By Boinkaz

walking faster to a run
anklet chains chime to rising wind
alone together we all wear orange
and nothing rhymes with it.

a menagerie of intention & belief
made curios in painted alabaster
we’re set to fester in our billions
on sheafs of pornography & religion.

we stare through long imagined space
cast eyes across tectonic plates
spinning swift on graphite pencils
thank god we don’t all know our place.

this archipelago against apocalypse
grows smaller as the waters rise
signal fires warm our hill forts
yet they find no compromise–>

the thrashing waves of compliance
a tsunami mumble of even tones
leaves the wicked in good standing
while they monitor our phones.

what piebald beast we face,
slouching towards his computer screen
earning all our scorn:
the fanatic & his sudden acts
whose banal story ends like hard punctuation.
And the smug & well-connected fool
with his presumptions of ordered society
and pretensions to penitence.

We wisk our lives in an illusion of freedom
yet they fulminate in illusion of control.
May our courage face & bleed them
our arms are waving from the shoals.

An earlier draft of this poem appeared at a really cool blog full of poetry & short fiction. You should check it out right here: http://artisoursickness.wordpress.com

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The Gun Bash Long #poetry by Boinkaz #poem #micropoetry

This is a very tough poem to write and its still not done. Tough topic, tough to not sink into satire. Gun bashes are a huge part of rural & suburban American life.

© 2014 By Boinkaz

A line of fishing wire
run to the spool~
It reels an endless catch
of camo colored baseball caps
sewn through the teeth with
deer & fish
tractors and
Big
Monster
Trucks

This is the Gun Bash
to benefit for the Volunteer Fire Company
and for eight hours they will sit
the sportsmen, strapped to a hood of tables
set end-to-end in rows within.

Gorgeous women, swooped like Valkyrie in money aprons,
among the sportsmen holding out
big
black
guns
barking out
~$10 a purple ticket, modified SKS”~
~$5 pick of the table! Tan ticket, choose your gun.~

Old men, fire plugs with faces painted lines of red, blue,
carry small
centerfire shotguns,
~your child’s first gun? Rossi .410! $2! $2 a ticket!~
You remember your first shot
in a life frramed by firepower:
the smell of cherry pipesmoke
your grandfather’s wax jacket
as he nestled his arms around you
& his split barrel twelve gauge
with its bully punch recoil.
Rabbit runs: you missed.
~Give me ten~
you say.

And every fifteen minutes square blue tickets come out
to see the models on the catwalk as they paraded by
The Glock 36
the Mossberg 835 12 gauge
Smith & Wesson Forty Cal with
real
wood
grips
Thompson ~ center impact
the Barrett M82 sniper rifle
which sits like a petrified asp
waiting to be reborn in the death of others.
Where each round is so big
it will blow
a $10 dollar bill
~clean off~

The guns flew
like bats.
The rifles, raffled
clung to the walls.
Handguns huddled
with their clips like wings
set to triagles, their
chambers strapped open
with nylon ties.
The girl guns cooed next to them
cholas in bright chrome & pink grips.

The flaming beauty field strips the SKS before you.
She births the box clip
as she has all afternoon
at the hands of the sportsmen & now you.
I love this weapon, she says.
I
Love
THIS
gun
You buy her final ticket. You set your beer
& dig your wallet.

For the firestick that, like death, offers no reflection
has mirrored back on you.
And you succumb to the shining flush you
see on the faces around you, because you want
this crack in a barrel.

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A gasping vessel of empty space #poem #poetry #micropoetry

wooden slat chairs ~
blow empty where we sat ~
on a five acre deck of back lawn.
Our firepit a punctuation of ash. ~

for I have left these weathered cracks
to go and get the old me back.

what matters is not love ~
some intention of our yearning ~
pouts sprout in fields of ashen doves ~
this harvest done ~
this turf’s for turning.

for I have left these weathered cracks
to go and get the old me back.

dissolving mist upon the river ~
a warming hypocaust of sky ~
the air’s old laughter turned to shivers ~
in rear-view mirror I glance good-bye.

for I have left these weathered cracks
to go and get the old me back.

your home taught hypothesis:
my laundry, I never asked to wash. ~
the dinners, I never asked to make. ~
Blouses now hang in a ilence of cotton wind ~
pasta with its rolling pin ~
chased me from the kitchen.

once I cooked in handwashed silks
and now I want that old me back.

keys, and dreams, and satin thoughts ~
surrendered in this cell for naught. ~
while you trained me to become ~
what maybe you could learn to love.

this clock has whipped grim calm to flax
and now I want the old me back.

None of this matters now. ~
No.
What matters is this —>

who stood at your aching shoulder ~
and in sickness had your back? ~
your eyes now vault, raptured in empty heaven ~
while I plod, splashing the gray mercy of rain.

It’s me there–>
blown fur in the center of the road. ~
It waits, that me, in a caracassed dawn ~
just beyond ~
5 acres of lawn.

THE END