Genghis Khan At The Typewriter

Genghis Khan sits down at the typewriter, a portable Underwood.

His tortured soul desperately tries to conjure up a Mongolian metaphor for love.

It is a task of barbaric proportions.

Mongol is, as yet, an unwritten language birthed from bone and mayhem.

The sounds are raw and feral.

No font can cage their nature.

But the Great Khan, Universal Ruler, senses a sonnet steeped in The Steppes coursing somewhere under his leather-laced armor.

Certain tribal concubines have indicated this to be his heart.

They have placed their tiny bird-like hands over his iron chest and summoned forth strange visions.

A heart!

As if the Great Khan, master of Central Asia, scourge of China, has need for a heart.

Empires are carved out of destruction, death.

A heart!

A heart would be a liability, a stigma of weakness.

And yet?

Genghis feels an unknown creature course through his veins and stop to drink at the place where the concubines held their tender young palms.

His coarsened skin tremors at the memory.

And so, Genghis Khan, Emperor of Oceans, sits at the typewriter, a portable Underwood, hands bloodied with conquest, body still suited for war.

He sheaths his emotions in strands of silk and sends them forth like arrows of unspoken words in search of prey.

These weapons are of a language that cannot break, complicated, strong.

And once embedded in the heart, the tender teasing of the twisted silk opens words into poetry and the wound seems insignificant.

Copyright 2013

(For Bryan, who loves history, even when it’s invented)


PLAYING WITH BOMBS (August Postcard Poem 2017)

He inhales helium from the red balloon,

the girdle of gas cinching his vocal chords,

strangling his bass two octaves higher.


His laugh becomes reminiscent

of a vintage cartoon character,

boiled in vermouth,

trapped in the mountains of Tibet.


He summons forth chuckles,

maniacal laughter,

exhales them back into the red latex sphere.


Soon he has a bouquet

of twenty-three balloons,

all of them red,

each filled with pleasure.


Riding his bicycle

to the barbed-wire barricade,

he floats them all free

over a nation held hostage.


Bullets assassinate all the balloons

as if they were hearts

meant to be lost.


He smiles to himself

as he bicycles away.

Laughter rains down for weeks

bringing strange peace.


Copyright 2017

IRONY (August Postcard Poem 2017)

He wanted to worship her,

not destroy their lives.


The line of separation

was as thing

as a liar’s promise.


He had precariously balanced

along the edge

for years,

hiding a secret desire

to stumble and plummet.


One day,

he closed his eyes,

executed a lover’s dismount,

giving no thought at all

as to whether

he could stick the landing.


Copyright 2017

FLIRTING WITH DANGER (August Postcard Poem 2017)

He speaks the lost language

of Tierra del Fuego,

wearts t-shirts woven

from the sweet dreams

of sinners.


There is power to his stride,

he harbors dynamite

in his muscles,

grace to his step

as the fuse offers salvation.


He rinses his mouth

with unabashed flirtation,

coating each spoken word

with appealing inuendo.


Men want to be him.

Women want to have him.

But he is a warrior of conquest,

collecting hearts like scalps

in a box under the bed.


Copyright 2017

EVERYWHEN COCKTAIL (August Postcard Poem 2017)


1/4 tsp. – singed ashes from a comet’s tail

1 oz. – powdered ink from an octopus’ diary

1 pinch – quarter notes (evaporated) from a Magyar love ballad

1/2 cup – distilled vapors of cactus tears


After bathing the above in the whispers of lovers, add the following:


1 jigger – Moravian monk pure bourbon

2 oz. – Creme de Nova, fifty proof


Place all of the above in a blender until a halo appears.

Pour slowly over two cubes of ice stolen from the soul of a newly-calved glacier.


Best served under the light of a waning moon.


Copyright 2017