I wrote a poem once airing and burying secrets and shame. A poet engaged with me about his job in waste management. He had some good points. I wrote a poem once about a tragedy and loss of life. Later the death toll went up and my poem got better. Not because of the…
Month: October 2020
Stairway to Nowhere
I live in a house – with a stairway to nowhere – But I have my heaven – When I’m in your arms – Dusky moonlight floods her light – As we lay & hold each other tight I live in a house – with a stairway to nowhere – But I have my heaven…
A Day To Day Forgetting
(the 90’s in bedsits & share-houses) they stayed, if they could, impassive, immediate, lowered themselves, sat-squat on the word’s hearth, drip sat on its flame-lick, wet fire, tank straddled, finger-loosened bungs; unlocked at the front, they’d come back unsure of this at first, and the second time, with American verse, the confessional females, I’d perform…
blood
say nothing. the sheets are damp. the doorknob turns. it’s going to hurt. it hurts but keep going. flushed w heat w shame of it. failure to communicate. the heart beats in its chest. it isn’t a trick, omg it’s so easy. you can do it in yr sleep. you can do it when yr…
from SANDY ROOMS #4
6 morning like nothing had happened; bench about a foot wide, three railings and seven or more municipal coats of various enamel paints covering seventy years of dawns, hissing ocean, salt and soap, sand, ‘sects, the bus so it links with the first train for one person who may feel the whole city conspires with,…
Sun-Spun
i. It bloats into a new hour and light’s all over me like anxiety. Flies fatten, nerves burst and as petals shed I molt creatures of keen sheets. Unhinge, seize abstractions from their skin! Undone, squint the big stars dim. ii. A quarter to ten so exquisitely tends this multifoliate host, surviving each of these…
The Past
A yellow moon glowers, Over my homely mansion. A werewolf stalks on the pavement level. Here in the trees are the huge boughs, Of the neighborhood. We dwell, in the night-time, Above the ground, In a complex of closed apartments, Made of wood. The sickening dim light of the streets, Shines up weakly at the…
Living
I was reared in the Church of Don’t-Worry-About-It, Under Saint Nobody. Nobody has stayed by my side all my life. He never criticizes, or he doesn’t answer back. Nobody walks with me, So I walk with nobody. He’s fine. I went with him to the Wailing Wall, Where I began to bang my head. My…