Tag Archives: Kenneth Pobo


by Kenneth Pobo

Think of me as a coffin.

the lid a crack–we’re in
Provincetown Cemetery–
the sun lights up mausoleum
bones. We hop from shop
to shop, our love of
ORANGE, a leaf clown crying,

and roots putting
another one over on us.



by Kenneth Pobo

Henry David Thoreau, an articulate 196-year-old guy, and I talk. Rumors say he died in
1862. Ha! He manages quite well in his strange cabin in a hummingbird’s beak. Look
closely at my picture taken of the Gulf after the BP spill—see him out on the back of
a loggerhead sea turtle. Sometimes we argue. I tell him the Earth is a cathedral, holy,
the eyes of every beast shining like wavery candles. Holy he’ll accept—but not the
cathedral. His church never shuts out the wind and if a snake should talk, he listens,
delights in an Eden that never dies away completely. Yet, to see polar bears floating to
their deaths in the Arctic and dolphins dying in oil, he mourns how we wound it again
and again. Thoreau dusts a crystal chandelier in a dragonfly’s wing.

His church is open
water lilies and skies.


by Kenneth Pobo

by her mother who called her
rotten. Another dose
from school where kids called her

ugly. When she got married–
he loved her, he said,
and he did, in his way,
till a librarian found his lap,
and she rarely saw him

again. Ingest enough
strychnine and you can grow
immune to its power. She’s

immune. Almost.
And almost is fatal.



by Kenneth Pobo

a controversy,
but really,
I’m bland–I chew

Black Jack gum,
sing offkey in the car,
and I’ve been caught

ringing up the sky to see
if John Lennon’s home.
Many don’t

want me to marry.
Unless I do
it as they do—

America’s way of making
arranged marriages.
Walking down the aisle,

the bride and groom trip
over dead gay bodies. The priest
straightens the carpet.



by Kenneth Pobo

I’m sitting on the floor of my bedroom
at age 12. WCFL plays “Willie Jean”
by The Shadows of Knight. In March
I take for granted our empty Dutch Elm trees

the same way I do my bed. That will change,
but for now the guitar is a bumper car
I’m driving straight into spring. On the way
I see this almost too cheerful woman

heading uptown. She asks do I know of
a mermaid salon? I try to help strangers,
but we’re landlocked in Villa Park. Even
Lake Michigan is 20 miles away–

she thanks me as she looks around,
six fish by her side, a wolf behind her.
I crash into a scary but inviting wall
of tulips that no one else can see.