Thomas Fink



Bad Blue


oven, almost abusing
a boiling dawn
sheen on a
chain coffin overhead.
A bridal bonfire’s
million balloons. Beethoven
anguish loaded on.
Accordion siren addles

any aspiring backwater baby. All bacon

ambassadors, western and eastern and between,

assemble beside a
blazing bronze horizon
box. Did bearded
bears learn accelerated
branches brimming golden
arms? Among wicked
blossoms, accused buds,
pinned, whiten accidentally.

 

 

 

Nonce Sonnet 2


Which   treadmill has grabbed
hold of data that it would be
a curricular watchdog’s bliss to   bewitch? Until some
alarms top others. It might require an honorable
   snitch to sense
that the   landfill has not
lowered its set point to
our comfort range, but it
   will—if enough bouncers,   rich and nearly
affluent doers, and peanut

tradesmen buy the   pitch of excavation
as sculptural pastime and stop conducting
pachinko with the   abyssal. You can
make    litter redemption a
campaign tissue, and your
corner of the pedestrian
   feud will grow
to a taller
order. I used

to   cater to international
fried chicken rallies, where
to   fritter surplus was
to register a knockout
trademark. Presently, thrift should

not be    imbued with Calvinist
scorch. Too late to be

a    prater. Leverage data.

 

 

 

Folk Church Idol


infects virgin paycheck.
I'm indisputably itinerant.
Impossible paunch in
punch. I'd hook
& pack visiting
investors into black
birch shack innards.

Through vaudeville veneer I speak

inside stuck villagers' independent instincts.

I'll trick thick
vulgarisms into quick
vanilla value stock.
If velvet venom
initiates innocent volunteers,
I've lush vaccinations
& vascular vacations.