Christopher Mulrooney






simply the commonplace item

ready to hand

the staff of life and drink

the object of belovedness

in a way seeming or seemly

in the presence of one



the bliss of the moment


I could rake off the top

says the mobster the instant

gratification of a bookie’s dream

but where does that get you

I ask you playing the horses

where ya gonna buy Kentucky

at this hour o’ the night





it isn’t the freshets

at an hour before sunrise

with the fog creeping in

to your tent like Sandburg

but the solid hour

of the midnight oil





the disquisition speechifies

in gallon hats five ten

you name it it’s a great dispatch

of the remaindered going nowhere

clearing the shelves at last





that is where the strategy comes

across the line in the end zone

the filthy lays in code words number

and a slap of rhythm in helmets

for the sake of one Hail Mary





the crass tones and idle words

press too luridly against one’s buttocks

and a frank overhaul is not in the cards

come on now is the breeze a mess

does the Latin lingo buzz with Inverness





boots and is the cry boots and

where is the riding house in the lane

behind the stables what stables the house

of the horse what horse the one and only

equestrian statue to model by horse





what other course vat of wine fermenting

answering service taking everybody’s calls

a profusion of wires ensuring the plash

of beaded bubbles winking at the brim

and a poem to commemorate him





emerging at the bath towel aimed

properly avoiding all the other drops

raining on the carpet below

it takes the phone is that you Harold

how was Italy you are still there fine



climate zone


at this bend of the bay I can scratch off two

and count nine into the bargain oh yes

the garment district is run on the suppliant logic

of plaint and scruple making a muckle

out of a mickle and a very dill pickle



an authoritativeness


I perused all the library books

in all the monasteries

in a hundred mile radius

nay a thousand

and found not such a volume



aviation headquarters


I was at Bianca or she was at me

I forget which says the flier’s joke

goggles on flaps down or is it up

where the flying jelly comes in jars

that catch the light in surprising ways