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


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now that the SUV has been withdrawn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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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

A She-Time Sonnet

by Boinkaz

she has two pupils set within one eye

the product of inbreeding I’m convinced

her cooking is earnest and italian

set in reject pots from an outlet sale.

hawks of sweat clutch her arm as she cleans house

she’s merry as a bell with her talk shows.

reading ingredients off chocolate bars

she laboriously eats the morsels.

if time were a rose, its petals have dried

and scents our bathroom, behind the toilet.

claws of first snow withdraw to pads of grass

long our hearts tumble in this laundromat

eventide kisses of tonic and rye~

subtle jazz slow symbol whisk till we die.

Copyright 2015

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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

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
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
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.
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.


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. ~
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.