Thursday, November 19, 2009


A man was cleaning out
trash cans, I didn't catch his
name, or his face,
only his occupation,
as he turned a smaller can over
an empty cup missed
the large collection bin,
it clack clacked along the floor
the sound thin plastic makes on polished tile,
it rocked back and forth on infinite sides
at my feet as I passed by,
I did not stop to pick it up.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Warning: Do Not Anchor Here

Thousands of them,
glowing golden
in the high afternoon light,
piercing the air
like the marching spears of
bronze clad roman legions;

above, folded layers of white clouds
peer down, filtering the sun;

bursting from the ground
a line of unlit firecrackers
fed by languid streams, the water
cool, reflective, alive,
billions of droplets
rising and falling,
illuminated, like the foliage,
from within.

The World Between the Fat is Meaningless

From darkened lens
it feeds on the soul of the landscape,
a panoptic succubus
dulling green, blue, yellow, orange, gold, brown
muting sounds
subjugated to humming machines
pounding metal,
oiled and blistered,

A perspective
determined by architects, city planners, engineers
a fixed line to visualize the world,
whats beyond
is prostrate, unimportant,
hidden behind malls and crowded
fill-up stations
boasting minimum charge ATMs,

Obscured lives
move beneath us,
absurdly seeking
a righteous path, a
greater meaning,
of syncronicity
rather than coincidence
and longing,

A photographers voice,
the blind man's curse,
locked away in forgetful undeath
while unseen wheels,
perpetual turn,
carrying us, eternally,
to nowhere

Raymond Boulevard and Washington Street

The ladder leads up to the roof,
all gothic ornamentation and classical reliefs,
you've already descended
uninterested in long dead sculptors and philosophers,
calling out in a voice to me,
follow! follow! follow!
I peer down through swirling winds
and vibrant colors
I'm too afraid to leave the sky.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Regrets are left next to coffins, to be picked up by curious youth

I'm Sisyphus pushing a
pyramid toward jagged peaks
while you watch,

a 6-pack too many
and you're sloppy drunk
or epileptic,

no matter what side I turn you
it's all the same nowhere,

standing slouched, peering
over gorges calling names,
we are bathed in the sweat of regret,

a sweet inviting smell
that you've accepted,
and wear in resignation and disdain,

I'd like to hit you
so you'd snap out of it,
but the jump has already been made,

Now all thats left
for me to decide,
is whether
I should watch
close my eyes.

Feeling Down?

There were cold nights,
the guns silent,
their barrels chilled and muted,

the sky havoc
with dancing particles,
of dust or something else,
like the empty bottles
strewn about our feet,
illuminated by our sorrow

time covers distances
transversed by

waiting for the sun,
the white clouds,
the smell of flowers
soon to be trampled
under fallen bodies,
we sleep
without any alternative.

Friday, November 13, 2009

The Time Traveler and the Auto Salesmen

I'm writing to change
the future,
but you already forget me,
I left a letter for you
next to the vase of chrysanthemums
on your desk,
I wanted to write:

"The Dreams you had of me
were meant to come true,
but for time they were only sketches
to erase."

Instead I wrote
"I guess I missed you,

The woman at the flower shop
typed heavily on the cash register,
I told her never send
Christmas flowers
in February with the sky
gray and winter watching,

There was a 57' Chevy
in the parking lot,
in 1957 it was new,
it looks new today,
its license plate
"Classic Car."

it had once read:

I told the woman at the DMV this
and that classic cars
aren't really old or classic
they just are,
I think she smiled,

I walked to your desk,
but you weren't there
and so I waited,
a man told me you no longer
worked here,
it looked like he had a firm handshake
I didn't test him,

I wondered where you had gone,
I stood there for a while
deciding to scribble a
short message
in case you ever returned

I looked at your desk,
empty but for the
fading ring left by some fading glass
I crumbled the note and
fit it into my pocket
to reread later,

how strange,
I remembered
I was going to
leave you flowers
I forget them.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

My mornings with Arthur and his kind words

Everywhere the Aardvark slept,
the grinding of steely intestines
and metallic orbs
watching over us,
brought him restless nights,
though in the morning,
with a thin bead of light
shining through our window
he always smiled,
spoke of romantic dreams,
and drinking cups of
blackened coffee,
waited for the rapture
with me.


There's music in those white sneakers
and a weightlessness in their step,
with a song like that
we'll never touch the floor.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Is this today or yesterday, Without a Liberal education I can't tell...

They came from privileged space,
descending upon the uncivilized 
to teach them the honor to be found
in free labor, to a people 
adverse to work,
to impart on them self-reliance 
and prudence, of which it was thought 
their people had none,
From the spheres of Oberlin
their hair tied back,
their finger nails clean, they found
a presence unwanted,
a feeling they graciously ignored
for the betterment of their pupils,
The land sacked, the houses burnt,
the order of labor and life and thought and society
up in the air air air,
And they carried their education like their enemies 
had once carried the whip and the cane and the gun,
In the fields they couldn't find humility
and the cotton weevil had been out of work
for too long to offer much help,  
So when they returned to the mothership
codenamed Oberlin, 
they spoke the same gospel of the defeated,
the landed and the wretched,
about a people who wouldn't be ruled (for their own good)
who fought honorably against oppression (but were impudent)
struggled to feed their families (but lounged lazily)
and built their own schools (but refused to read and write)

Sunday, November 8, 2009

A Homeless Break-up; It's Your Fault

"Get the fuck outta my face!"
He half yelled, half growled
The decayed insides of the
chinatown bus stop
expanded and constricted
with his breathing,
eyes staring, ears poised,

She looked at him,
her aged navy blue backwards cap,
facing the audience,
"I can't believe you can say that to me...
this isn't you."

So now I wonder,
when this is all over
who gets the house,
how do they split the cars,
will the custody battle over their children
be bitter or one of compromise,
What will their families think,
How will they move on?


Who will accept their worn clothes,
jacket piled on jacket,
to curl up against in the cold night
over the sounds and smells of subway and sewer pipes,
steaming air and half eaten food,
"split the shopping cart in two,"
I can hear King Solomon's decree,

And after the bombs have settled
and the contracts signed
who has paid the ultimate price
for their fast cars, expensive food,
little suburban homes and fancy dress?

the look painted forever
on their
hands and
is my answer.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

The Frog

We are marching toward
a conclusion, crowds teeter on
the brink, the equivocal grunts
of preachers, prophets and fools
turning us into mush,

You are being shaped by someone else,
from noxious clay with shriveled stones
for eyes, vestigial, yet marked with
bright illusions, painted in colors

A tactile smile remains
to blind hands reaching out
seeking comfort, deaf to the blissful
laughter and heavy tables, privy
to gluttonous feasts and unforgiving bodies
practicing the religion of perfidy,

The jungles frost over,
snow breathes its way into our lungs,
A little girl offers her hand,
if you take it, they will set you free,
but we watch her leave,
the insects wait and the vultures descend,
there is a voice but we can't make it out
calling from somewhere between history,
like the frog who has run out of lily pads,
there is no path left before us,
He tightens his muscles and leaps
into nothingness,
the water splashes around us,
the parting of red seas,
ripples echo like miniature earthquakes,
and then--
and then--
nothing is calm.


you send me on those twists and turns. the road to nowhere is everyday bordered by the lost children of faraway dreams. To cancel your subscription just return a postage paid letter to this address. We are not blind, so then we pretend not to see. A collection of sentences seemingly random. Or unwittingly constructed. overwritten in verse, underwritten in time. Does everything mean something but sometimes mean nothing? If so, when the hour strikes and the sky is gray will you wait for me? (no matter if I spell it with an e or a?)

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

End of the Year Budget Checks

It looks bleak,
there are many words outlined in red,
there are none in black,
so much so that someone
has chosen to employ a
blue ballpoint pen, though
it has run in several places,
or been accidently smeared;
names are obscured
so too the LLC,
There is another year ahead
and another behind,
Some of us have found cancers hiding,
women leaving,
grades falling,
but the unlucky
ones have just gotten older
and frailer, skeletons
covered in red,
widening sockets
and tired eyes
looking for the black,
hoping even,
to see some blue.

she tugged on my shirt outside the Lions den

She tames lions,
they were once vicious
now their fangs are capped
docile, disciplined
they no longer recall
the wet jungles, the taste of 
fresh blood nor the thrill of the hunt

Like stuffed animals in
a museum, they plant, pivot
snarl, sniff; blank eyes
and tapered claws,

The crowds cheer, a great
mane desexed, a showpiece,
a lion, the king of the jungle
submissive, subdued,
an exhibition for the masses,
a lean, segmented cut of meat,
pages ripped out of
your biology books,

jumping hoops, encircled by fire,
a blank slate, memories chisled away,
a castrated roar like chiming
silver bells, harmless and
on a road that leads
from nowhere
to the circus,
to the zoo,
to retirement,
to the grave.