Lin Powell writes from Phoenix, Arizona, and has been published in New Millennium Writings, Highlights for Children, Poetry Quarterly, Blue & Yellow Dog, The Speculative Edge, Palo Verde, and other venues.
The tragedies of near-Earth re-pixelization
dribble down hinterlands
of forgiveness with stabbers standing
on their tip-pointed heads whereas
canonization is allowed in
only on Sundays
do they go under virtual avalanches
of leftovers, left over from scrabbling
carnivores and vegetarians nibbling
in the trashcans of masqueraded detritus
with but one gripping impulse
horse-sense must be stopped at the checkpoint
of no return
coupons for ten percent off
to regular customers who pay themselves
short shrift in thrifty marts and steer smart go
karts in the parking lot half the time.
Monday he said I hear the can calling.
I thought he had to pee but it turns out
the schmucking schizoid
always tells the truth.
His can ruled our menagerie of voice-prints
left unedited by clowns with orangey sutures
and it tried to fit into Campbell’s girdles designed
for ghost-faced Lemuridae under Dalí’s pink goalposts,
but failed at genuine camaraderie in the aftermath
of finding gold-leafed
pandemonium in its navel.
Pistols at Midnight
She of the rabbit hole,
side-pockets a secret entrance,
flees to a double star;
the Via Galactica sticks
out its tongue.
She takes the cue.
Preyer and preyee tangle
inside the pristine, hustled joke;
sticks tear the flannel vest
of spacetime, whose lips
lap out loud at a drowning
The she-heart swims
alongside an eight-ball canoe.