“Hobbit Poem”

Cassini was this division
crash of no saving, slow day in the torture park
regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind’s sway,
regardless of Mordor’s cossack legions
Nintendo waltz, ungray cat in the dark;
spoor, troika, idioms haste upon decay
and koi in my glasses gleam religions
lost. It’s a day of rain and hobbit holes.
I turn off only the telly’s sound, dying
into satiety, thraxed. Who was Oz Fudge?
Sleepdep urns my view waltz controls
as though it were aroha a’a signifying
and not the spring becoming ion-nudge.

Maroon fog clinging. Aslant fall orts
of sprezzatura. Some Dione hagiolith
a Schumann quintet is combing, aborts
my dream or dreamy missile. A ruby myth
ensues. In Kurdistan an open omen lies:
what a pother is here about mimeo oreo!
From yonder realms of violets flower
sneaky ducks whose saffrons analyze
autumn via Three Dog Night on Albireo.
Clowning with angina the poet-barrio
is Albion with lonesome echoes’ power.
Pounamu Hesperides on crack occults
the font of energized Nintendo waltz.

This decaf Mandarin Orange Spice tea
follows me like a smog cough--high time
we parted. Did I anger your orcs, Futile?
By the moss-grown pile no neutrons sat.
They say it was a game in essence, rhyme
among loose body parts. Fume or nicety
from any of my bad drafts, aileron that
typhoons wrench; waltz of pink lentil
and brown. O Cassini the gurgle’s swirl!

K. S.

Wormhome.

K. S. (not yet food for worms)

Some people think that I am not real. Here is a blogger who is really not real. What do you think?

K. S.