Saturday, November 30, 2013


That savagely indifferent nap – as void of caring what was going on
beyond you as a Jersey dairy cow would be to earthquakes in Nepal;

the sexual shenanigans you planned
and only partly carried out;

the range of soft involuntary sound you found
while talking to a friend in pain;

the gain of drawing, framing, labeling, enabling your “art”
you barely managed to sustain – snarling at it like a rabid dog;

that yet-another-piece-of-pepperoni-sausage-pizza
you just slaughtered like a hog;

how you watered thought with terror and hilarity all day – killing,
marrying, ignoring and imploring all the lovely awful static in the way;

the semi-colons linking almost everything.
You’re damned if you won’t sing.


Friday, November 29, 2013

Party Talk

You try to make the points
you’ve stored in stories
you can tell at parties

while a pet is on your lap:
logic is reflexive and insidious –
intention seeps into your smallest

talk – desperately deductive –
underneath a tone you
try to make seductive.

Your social apparatus pleads
and begs. The pet voluptuously
drapes across your legs.


Body Parts

Body parts
are oddities in art.
Art does not require them,
but oh, how we desire them.


Thursday, November 28, 2013

Wishful Thinking

Every thought is wishful. Every word’s a dishful
of the slinking and the slippery: no spoon can spoon it up:
but oh, its swoon – its glistening effects! Somehow,

in listening, we catch – detect -- a spill of overtone,
an iridescent whisper of relief: engendering the wild belief
that this time, this time – it will come. Blinking, we grab

fistfuls of its dare, and maybe aren’t anywhere – but there
the wishful thinking simmers, hangs suspended --
teasing spirit! -- glimmers, not so distant, in our earthly air.


Wednesday, November 27, 2013


Ah, to be beside yourself –
bestride the glories of a brimming
love, too fresh, too unencumbered,
too ridiculously succulent
to keep your lips from licking it –

or wanting to – the shunting  
to and fro of your besotted heart
between its secret stories
and the rash audacities of flesh,
its flush, its cadences, its blooming

heat, sweet radiance of private
sweat you almost smell –
oh no, oh yes, the sweat you smell,
the tongue you’d put to it – the spell
the unimaginable possibility of hell.