McTeague

A wanton, foul, bee-pecked sage/
light scream layed on bedouin stage/

lingered-in lines absenting age/
as his divided self grew worn/

With supine shine he did freckly dote/
on half-a-hungry greenback note/

unwashed in soiled bearskin coat/
where his first full form was torn/

It blew up fast his balloon score/
a crone-sold rot for verbal core/

he sat down first, a sanded bore/
denied that East blown horn/

Now empty while once complete/
on filial feet so slappy sweet/

loose names shower down the street/
and we’ve left that fur all shorn/

Smaller

an arid boy
astir asleep
aware alone
in breaking morn

a sunless day
the children’s son
shunted soon
in omen’s room

with hard routine
steady felled
obliged unseen
to be unheld

awade in fools
abused in mouth
a pared at heir
annointed rune

Flake

Be a flake

(fallen off lids
a flake aflight

funny
like kids

flaking snow
fast and fun

being a flake
like a fluke)

(But I am a flake

not an honest
fake

but a faltering
altering

cake frosting
bit of bake)