poetry

Touch Of Gray

with two toes I test the temperature of the linoleum like a rookie member of the Polar Bear Club wondering if I plunge right into the day that the floor is as cold as it looks from the cocoon I've made with my bedspread that the tiny icicles forming on the AC ducts are really part of my imagination then I'm forced to look at Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle lying at my head board and laugh so hard that I'm crying I jump out of bed throw open the curtains outside it's bright with just a touch of gray Read more [...]

Ts Eliot Moth

[i]for Modern Poetry Fa02[/i] "Can you imagine if T.S. Eliot were to enter the room, right now." Beckoning the call, almost unnoticed, insignificant dusty silent wings fluttering in the mid-afternoon, the karmic incarnate sailed into the classroom. We were unmoved to the unannounced visitor to the discussion, somehow always retrospective to certain expatriate literary geniuses. How for fifty years (maybe more) the accomplished poetic deities lorded over form and words, commanding make it new! let no words not add! Forgotten now are radio speeches, recantations, fascist salutes-- Read more [...]

A Speech Before the Splattered Blood

The DOW spikes up, banking on a dwarfish draft of Armageddon gloom. Our president will speak at five. No casualty is casual. It's hard to match a suit and tie to splatter of the coming blood. Ahmed, a driver in Iraq, says: "This is a miserable life. We spent it shopping for war or hiding from bombs." He recites his summary as if his time is finished as a boiled egg. All eyes red from pressing night's extended weight. Justice spelled so many ways our alphabets no longer know their proper forms. Iraqis seal their windows shut as if a roll of tape will come between the fragile glass Read more [...]

photographing the civil war

not shadow but reflection february rain from tanguy's sky until the streets are all dull grey mirrors if i keep my distance i could be anyone if i get in my car and drive i could call it escape could call it running away which is sometimes an act of cowardice and sometimes an act of survival and i sit in this room of empty chairs instead with my thoughts and my bitter resentments i believe in gorky at the age of 43 in rothko at the age of 66 but not in my father not at any age and not in any of the bars i spent my childhood in i remember the threats and all of the dire predictions Read more [...]

poem burdened with the weight of democracy

this act of not killing this place where nothing is forgiven where nails are driven through human flesh then pulled back out where your god sings a beautiful song without meaning think about words as nothing more than noise look at the men you've elected to power consider how they would eat their own shit to never have to give it up how they believe in rape and in the necessity of poverty the inevitability of war the logic of children butchered for the sake of a better future Read more [...]

ritual

or the names of the children found starving in the basement or the name of the person who finds them the blood of whoever left them there all the pictures of hell it could be used to paint Read more [...]

Suddenly It’s Solitaire

One moment he's pruning a wayward branch; garden tools rest happily against the brick like spoons in soup. You wonder how it stayed this warm. An ancient sun is baking leaves, raisins in a rising dough of seasons on a schedule. He edges grass the way he's always sculpted love -- by doing things in steady gestures like the rain. A seizure, then a surgery. Then solitaire so suddenly. Feet aren't there to track rich soil; welcome mats have lost all words. I bake two pies and take two pieces down the street. It's a short walk and a long hill up to the crown of thorns. Read more [...]

Inside a Name

I whisper her name aloud -- you tug at a chair to gather your coat, pet the dog and say goodbye before a question kicks you in the tender groin. Your eyelids curtsy once and clench -- a mirror of the coffin's hinge. I'd like to follow roads you take, through briars of the fruitless vines, down sharp, dry cliffs that crumble at the slightest wind. Our silence is my orphanage, but you don't know the windows you have blocked from light. Hand me just a sweater's sleeve, some syntax, context, anything that spells the way she made the bed into a novel packed with lust and happiness now cherry pits. Read more [...]
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