Nathan Moore


Pecuniary Emulation

Undo, stern e-friends.
Dig for horses, hens. Easy then,
hire a church’s half hole.
Submit a tone, an edict.
Laugh, enter offering

low sounds. The terminal him
smells broken. Disaster theater
standardizes stories promoting
a diet of Sam’s Club bratwurst
stored behind a shower curtain.
There: set a watch. Check the links.


Conspicuous Leisure

A lost one in denim glances at Desmond.
All the traders beg Beyond dynomite
tend our fences! Were the traitors
dunked in port? As those in light gear
guess, the unwanted deal.

There are no term limits for earnest ends.
Often, a state seizes the old in their plots,
sees chain laid. Lays chain. Reckons
souls by necks. Here: a near shot. Tie
dye knots leave a fading pattern. A rest?
Two blankets night-stitched on the ranch.


Conspicuous Consumption

Toad waves Welcome! Frog says Anything,
rhymer. Crank a sprocket over the lager!
What’s the lease read about hourly eruptions?
There’s nothing but rules on student’s bent needs.

Rude tech men, demon-fevered on a blonde
vendetta, touch an ankle. Will the union sue
its trust? Lies, mired in we, redden
half a scandal.

If we’re right, few know light, right?
A lost DJ rings from Hardees where sassy
nobles with dented knuckles order
“Chew the Ditch.” Tame bronies nick chins.
Smite mighty emblems with hair gel.


The Pecuniary Standard of Living

Frozen bear dung might end in roses.
Goodbye dear, surrender the blanks?
Do you hear cranks genuflecting?
Married on a furry altar?

Words ache in hierarchies. Crane flocks
tighten. The innocent die on doorknobs
rendered tragic.

A leader gardens tea roses in a bitter bubble.
The state rings art, asks for more cornfield
dioramas. Cunning snitches duck under names.
Here is where we hate a bistro, adore
an albatross.


Pecuniary Canons of Taste

Row to Sarasota. Row to San Jose.
“I heard,” he said, “all of us taped and stamped.”
Sold images mutter under ergot, tease
lessees into ever-swelling thunder.
Don’t run, Jonathan, Sundays erode want.
Erstwhile savior runs a millennial gang.

“Don’t knock, I hear comments.”
Shiny ear’s residential intentions design
a rime garden. Stuck in the casino with
nothing but dimes. Send for the certainty of false change.



Editor’s Note: The poem titles are taken from the chapter titles in Thorstein Veblen’s Theory of the Leisure Class.





Nathan Moore’s work has appeared in various publications including Everyday Genius, Heavy Feather Review, and Pudding Magazine. He helps run a poetry reading series called The Poetry Forum in Columbus, Ohio.