Verses for the Vixen (and Other Poems)

By Todd Mikosh

A Collection of poems written between 1989 thru 2001. Includes "A Picture of Her Face," "The Pumpkinification of Brash," and all the Schizophrenic Diatribes. The Appendix also includes never-before published verses from the unfinished project, "The River of Silence."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387823918

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Verses for the Vixen (and Other Poems)

Verses for the Vixen (and other Poems)

For the Vixen Herself

Copyright © 2015 by Todd Mikosh

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ISBN 978-1-387-82391-8

Life, is a Drug

Drugs are everything.[1]

Some aren’t legal.

Some aren’t moral.

Some aren’t sociable.

Some aren’t healthy.

Some are.

Food is a drug.

Some is chemical.

Some is botanical.

Some is mineral.

Some is animal.

Some isn’t.

Behaviors are drugs.

Some are appropriate.

Some are disturbing.

Some are controllable.

Some aren’t.

Entertainment is a drug.

Some is happy.

Some is violent.

Some is musical.

Some isn’t.

Life, is a drug.

And all drugs are addictive.

---

[1] Written sometime in 1985, based on a quote from a friend, Lyle Draper.  This poem was originally published in Mangled Doves.

Wings of Arrogance

The wings of arrogance spread[2]

Over brittle fears of my defeat.

The eagle soars who, once thought dead,

Battles angrily for a little meat.

Sense is made when Logic flies—

It steps upon my brittle fears.

I am now amazed when the napkin dries

(With semi-circles from water glass stains);

He’ll be reduced to shedding tears.

Feed the dried napkin to the soaring eagle,

But watch him cast a hungry eye:

Your wallet’s first, and then the car.

Your wife is next, and then how far?

I do not understand,

But apparently I should.

Maybe we all misunderstood,

But acted like we knew we would.

---

[2] Written sometime in the Winter of 1986.  I recall writing it while sitting in a Creative Writing class.  This poem was originally published in Mangled Doves.

Schizophrenic Diatribe I

Sleep chases me[3]

Around the room,

But I evade it deftly.

Awls.

Night falls and

Light shrinks to a

Slight glow, peeking

Around the corners

Of the moon.

Nocturnal animals

Creep out, sneak about,

In the vigil glow

Of twilight.  Where?

Here?  There?  Where?

Fools with flashlights

Wander out, seeking food

And other delights.

Beers drain and belch,

Calling out to the night.

Someone on a CB,

Turn down the squelch.

Madness, the sound

Of sanity, reaching out

To a deviant world of

Lunatics and miscreants.

Sales pitch,

The jazz of noise,

Searching out for silence

To violate.

A disturbance to create.

The little lines become longer,

Linger, on the edge of your ear.

Thoughts, oughts, and moths.

Aught,

That old thought,

Comes slinking down the hall,

Breaking the rules,

Killing the mules.

When we think, we do.

When we do, we don’t think.

That much is true, but

What about the rest?

And that sound that

Seems like nothing pierces

The ear—sees nothing

In the canal but Sewage.

And they talk about

It, like it was yesterday,

When tomorrow is today,

And today is a thing.

A thing of the past.

The word is destroy—

Thoughts, oughts, and myths.

Life is just a walk

Across a busy street.

A busy sidestreet, where

Busses stop, trusses drop.

This is rambling Garbage,   

But somebody’ll think

It’s just good stuff—

Alliteration, cotton fluff.

Assonance, asinine and  

Iridescence.  Strychnine.

The purple glow of night,   

The purple cow of delight.

They all wander

All around in

Their nightgowns for the

Fight.

If I pause, I wait,

But if I hesitate, the

Moment is lost,

The past will cost.

We are thee

Future’s children,

The Grandparents of the past.

The present

We can’t grasp.

Asp.

Life leads me

Around the room,   

But I follow poorly.

---

[3] Written May 7, 1989. This poem was originally published in Mangled Doves.

The Torn Letter

I suppose you are wondering[4]

Where’s the other half of the letter?

Well, I’ve taken to blundering;

Yes, I should have done it better.

My wandering, meandering

Has my mind feeling like batter.

All I have left is pandering

Like a March-hare or Madhatter.

I had left it in your mailbox

But then I had a change of mind.

Suffering from a mental pox,

I sought a way out of this bind.

Thinking it unwise, without checks,

The other half I thought ill-wind.

Before attacked Platonic wrecks

I chose the other half Rescind!

I drove apart, trembling in fear—

The package I went to revoke.

Empty and alone, without beer,

I think my courage I have broke.

To rape the lover’s hearts from afar,

I have opened the envelope

Like a courier in a bar—

I took the last half to elope!

Knowing it unfit, crumpled it,

And cast it forlorn to the ground,

I did.  Seeing that dumb old shit,

I refused to drag it around.

Amidst the muck and mire, on the curb,

It probably still resides there

So that nobody will disturb.

Soaking up plenty, water and air.

---

[4] Excerpted from a Letter to Debbie written sometime in March, 1989.  This poem was originally published in Mangled Doves.

Schizophrenic Diatribe II

Strangers see me[5]

And smile away,

So I while what I may

Towards passing the day.

The sun rises and glows

The streets into a glare.

Cars race, cops pace,

But the rats have no home.

Corvettes and Camaros,

Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles,

Jaguars and Maseratis,

Roll along among the throng

Of Nissans and Toyotas.

Drapes fall and Blinds

Curl against the shine

That