Anna Nicole Smith (I would have been happy to let he… Had I not heard a little girl on… Smith could have been happy in Te… serving burgers and bedding rednec…

Poetry Editors To Poets Don’t send us dull pentameters; That stuff’s for Keats and other… Submit no rhyme, but heaven knows We hate a poem that sounds like pr…

The Golden Yoke On this, our fiftieth, we find We’re Siamese twins conjoined by… To share all things of heart and m… Like blessings, curses, smiles and…

Electrocutions show our love of ri… We give the favored one a kingly f… As well as pen and ink so he can w… The thoughts we all will prize whe… We see his every need is now addre…

. . . and after they had torn and… The earth, and passed the tons of… Through frightening fires until it… And then unloaded it upon the shor… Of Black Detroit, where it was fi…

One moonless night in 1773 Americans, enflamed by British bu… Donned Indian face paint, boarded British ships, and gashed with hatchets

Thoughts on Cloning Someday the labs will make routine The methods used to clone me. But when my own’s an irksome teen I fear I might disown me.

Times there are in dreams and days when you behold a busy horde hastening away,

Poesy’s Progress My rhymes are gone, at least quite… my lines are stop– ped just anywhere. The meter is, no doubt, unconscion…

Intellectual Insecurity When I must read reports I really don’t feel too slick If I can’t see what’s wrong When I encounter a [sic].

The meter of this poem will be like ticks of a clock — no, I mean, ticks of clocks. On contemplation of my navel I see only what appears to be

The Inmate (a sestina) My parents, souls revering freedom… took turns at serving as my jailer to show me how constraints are rig…

Above the stores medieval grimness… stones coffin-sized in high gray w… exuding dampness of tombs, lichene… towering inward, threatening Gothi… across the twisting cart-wide lane…

Bank Caesar An angry man, conceived and birthed in cars, weaned on dumpsters, reared in shattered rooms