You’re going to cheeseburger yourself to death.
You’re going to French fry until you die.
Some salad would be your salvation.
But gravy will be the gravel you throw on your grave.
Originally Published:
Spring 1997,
The Cormorant,
Other Poems
Balance
I can’t get
my ceiling fixed;
I don’t have time
to do my laundry…Back from Jamaica
I just got back from Jamaica.
There it’s hot and sunny — here it’s cold and icy.
Last night,
I walked in the sand…The Nonymous Poems
Everyone feels
hurt
and lonely
and lost.
You’re not the only one…Where was James Bond born?
In a gazebo in Jamaica, Ian Fleming wrote the James Bond books.
He’d start his day by taking the 36 steps down the cliff to his beach….The zed poem
There are so many zeds in his life it’s zany.
He is using a zoom lens
when he happens to zoom in on a woman
who is zestfully unzipping her zipper from its zenith…Your call is not important to us
If we cared about your call
we would have hired a person to answer the phone.
But we don’t care…
