Channie Greenberg, The Little Temple
of My Sleeping Bag
The Little Temple of My Sleeping Bag
Publisher: Dancing Girl Press
Length: 40 pp.
So Many Do-Bees
Yet one more “well-informed,” perhaps,
Pandering, just a tad, “helpful” font
Pinged “have tos.”
Seems, over hills, vales, across screens,
Literary screed, like untested bitcoin,
Deigning to sound smart, one gal
Asked my grasp of platforms.
Without razzmatazz, we authors get
Mistaken for would-bes, for
Sure enough, I don’t throw bibliography
Like Mr. America tosses elephants,
Even with pokes from starlets, whose
Manuscripts I quashed yesterday,
Wish they’d shut up! Pomposity proves
Resources spent posturing. Ponder,
Satisfied players ain’t big-headed,
Need little directional help.
Sound texts grow by critical, maybe
Creative paths. Few dopes actually
Tomorrow, when deliberating spontaneous
“Good deeds,” consider, some of us
Growing Like Lemon Grass
Growing like lemon grass, or ganja,
Love gets sheared along stangs,
Sprouting as tomorrow’s siblings
Won’t fold up, go away, conflate, take speed,
Flense the glissandoing competition,
(While whipping vitality’s sanguinity).
Pebas’ money doesn’t digest well, returns
Among urban evil workers to collude, plot
Reasonable art, meretricious pong, woolies,
Hootenanny, shippons, grimpens, fawns, stillicide photos,
Street dancing, acid music, line drawings,
Most any kickshaw or profitable goings on.
Because of someone’s wedding saga,
Gal pals feign life as droguluses,
Braid acanthus, nenuphar, ribbons.
Everything’s become “cosmic design,” aesthetics of asymmetry.
Sons and daughters mature, move
Out, make tarmackers sit up, listen.
Ultimately, it’s immaterial whether Creation
Began with raging fire in planetary cores, or,
More slowly evolved, mountain by mountain.
What matters works essential lambent elements, underused prepubescent sprouts.
(Social acclivity spends large on little wars,
All acushlas bring sectile offerings or die).
Vendomatics in Urban Palaces
Vendomatics in urban palaces get jerry-rigged by well meaning pickled cacti.
After all, none of our flock, paper lanterns’ merit notwithstanding, tolerates
Sugar free days “enhanced” with forbs and feathers, or with love’s changing eyes.
Buildless mountains, not nurslings, aka macadam monuments to clever moments,
Fin de siècle testimonies about confabulated histories, otherwise laconic
Attempts gone awry, lose pieces early to short, fat fellows’ scalding visions.
Elsewhere, Bosendorfer instruments, whose music, unpleasantly, elicits
Enchantments wrought from metal juice cans, plated rilettes, also disposable efforts,
Hump off by grasshoppers, twingers, maybe sparrows, ever after, ever more.
Copyright © 2014 by Channie Greenberg