“Don’t go looking for trouble!”

were the first words out of

this baby’s mouth.


This word was born

in a honky-tonk

outside Disappointment, Kentucky.

Its mother was Medusa.

Its father was Quasimodo.


It stutters and drools

and wipes its mouth

with its shirtsleeves.

It has a simian chin

and a jaw that would make

a Cro-Magnon proud.


“Don’t go looking for trouble!”

were the very last words

out of this word’s mouth.






There are blurred edges

to this word.


This word is a werewolf

roaming Central Park.

Its eyes are the sins of the moon.

Its heart is made of dying light

and deepening shadows.

Its lips are slivers of ice.


It always whispers

after sundown.






This word is a

 very good and fine word.


It has two

red marbles for eyes.

Its mind swims

in shadows.

It has the

fatigued heart of

bored aristocrat.


This word is

a flower

made of lace.






This word reminds us

art is primarily

a form of exploration.


Its eyes are polished arrows

of cold and sparkling blue.

Its tongue is a silver sword

which can cut granite.


Its mouth writhes like

a worm on a hook.

Its laughter causes lumbago.


This word is

a small jar of tears.



© David Kowalczyk


Bio:  David Kowalczyk is a poet living in Oakfield, New York.