Tagged: poetry by michael konik

Poem: Inequity

Have another dry-aged steak cooked medium-rare, sir. And more creamed spinach? They go nicely with your claret, that ruby nectar that inspires Torrents of adjectives. Like “plummy.” And “herbaceous.” Never mind, sir, that your belly is full. It can be fuller. We ask only that as you shovel chewy morsels between your teeth, Like a...

Poem: Shall I Stand?

Shall I stand On my feet Erect and perpendicular, an animated sculpture exposed to the wind and The desecration of public scorn? Shall I stand? Shall I, stalk-like, yearn for the sky — Or at least the ceiling, the plastered governor that dictates the limit Of our aspirations? Shall I? Or — and this would...

Poem: Family

The shorthand for “we are closer than two people trying to profit from the other” Is family. So she repeats this key phrase, as though it were The magic code from a 1930s adventure movie That keeps our hero safe From nefarious dark savages. We are family. We are family. We are like family. Us,...

Poem: Cleansing

Interminable showers, laced with lye Astringents cascading down fair skin turned pink By heat and scrubbing — The forceful scouring that a wok gets after an overlong stir-fry. No amount of water Or soap Or solvent Can remove the stain Left behind like a the penumbra of light produced by an explosion. Choices were made...

Poem: Eclipse

You appeared in my dreams last night, Brightly, as though a master electrician had flipped a switch and Illuminated the Medieval courtyard I was inhabiting at the time. The unenlightened believed it was the sun that had turned the air White like halogen. But I could see on my special screen — the one provided...

Poem: The Character of Flowers

Can it be said (with certainty or not) about the things that grow?: There, see it! That’s (fill in the blank) incarnate! They do not feel, we suppose. So is it not somewhat fatuous, silly as a schoolgirl discovering the pulse Of a bass guitar limning the rhythm of adolescence, To call wisteria wistful. To...

Poem: Here, Then Gone

He wrote more plays than most people read In a lifetime. Some of them were quite good said the accrediting minyans Worthy of prizes and pull-quotes, if not actual Attendance, or protracted reflection. (Never mind that most audiences found the dramas over-long and tendentious, Allusive and dreamy and Largely about colored folks they didn’t know...

Poem: High Culture

Plato wrote about a cave Mr. Wren designed a nave: Would it be so wrong to sing a song Wearing nothing but a bright blue thong? Drama draws the geriatrics Attending matinee theatrics: Could we frankly say about a play It shan’t succeed if they won’t pay? King Tut’s remains have been a hit with...

Poem: Wrestling with Conundrums

If nothing matters as the nihilists insist, why does every slight Every snub Every slip of decorum Sting like brusquely touched sunburned skin? If turn thy other cheek is indeed the best policy, as readers of the good book know, Why does the human heart beat so passionately for revenge and Retribution That one imagines...

Poem: Tumbling Toward Ecstasy

Those dreams in which one falls, Uncontrollably hurtling Toward what seems like certain death, or at the very least Grievous injury, Like a freeway insect making an abstract blotch upon a windshield, Are supposed to mean something. You like to dance to the music of your body Unaware and drowning in bliss, Certain somehow that...