Wednesday, August 31, 2011


I don't regret
a false move
I didn't make
with a gun

pointed at
me. The gun
came out of
nowhere, the

way weather
does when
an unexpected
storm with

thunderclaps speaks
louder than words.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011


A great poem
or painting has
the good sense
to totally ignore

its sources (Eliot).
A photo-realistic
rendering in impasto
cannot be slapped

onto the canvas
carelessly. It requires
careful planning
and, in extreme

cases, revision. A
great poem squeaks.

Monday, August 29, 2011


Back in the days
when even women
and children were
reasonable men,

the art of postponing
pleasure was at
its zenith. Different
sized doors were

used to enter a
room, depending on
one's mood. Things
that needed doing

got done in advance,
before Dad got home.

Sunday, August 28, 2011


Fantasy's clever
move releases
fidelity from its
vow. Now

what? I cannot
emphasize enough
the importance of
coffee in the morning,

chamomile tea at night.
I often wonder what
it would be like
to not be anywhere.

Then, without warning,
I stop wondering.

Saturday, August 27, 2011


I don't understand why
everyone makes such
a fuss about leaving
the Atocha Station.

What better way to
get out of Madrid
by rail? I left the
Atocha Station on a

train last time
I was in Madrid
and, honestly, I
didn't notice anything

out of the ordinary.
It was raining.

Friday, August 26, 2011


Feel free to
run your fingers
through my white
hair in search of

wisdom. What
you find there
is all I've
managed to save.

It's the not much
that's all there
is once the famous
last words have

been erased.
Tomorrow's yesterday.

Thursday, August 25, 2011


Our children have
begun violating
curfew every night
while making love

under the bleachers.
The police, who are
busy buying lottery

tickets, are powerless
to help. No one
knows where the key
to anyone's heart is.

It's time. High
time it were time.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011


The poor live under
a bridge outside time
that's safely beyond
notice. A poet worries

that he may have
accidentally used
a pronoun in one
of his poems, knowing

he will be denounced
by the Academy Of
Utter Nonsense if
he has. Charity

tries one last time
to be the greatest of these.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011


A poet forgets how
to walk in one of
his poems and
can't get out of

the way. Fireflies
punctuate the night
with opposing thoughts
to no avail. Time

marches on anyway.
My wife is busy
funneling boiled
ecstasy into a

lidless Mason jar.
Now the wax.

Monday, August 22, 2011


The color of fear,
long thought to be
yellow, is actually
closer to beige.

This is no surprise
to the artist, who
knows true colors
and what they stand

for. White represents
the false doctrine of
creationism, green the
sensible idea behind

evolution. Love is
colorless, but vivid.

Sunday, August 21, 2011


I agree that a poem must not mean but be. But there are too many poems around these days that succeed in not meaning, but fail miserably to be.

Having chopped
down the only
possible reason a
cherry tree would

have been there
in the first place,
I leave what has
left me and

set said for
France, where the
freedom fries dwell.
Bon jour, I

practice saying
through the barbed wire.

Saturday, August 20, 2011


I have begun
forgetting things
before they happen
to get a head-start

on old age. My
bones have begun
breaking in
anticipation of the

fall. The widow
next door wants
me to weave a
kitten out of her

hair. I promised
her I'd try.

Friday, August 19, 2011


My waves of grain
are especially amber
this morning. I can
hear the harvest

creaking toward the
barn. I reap what I
sow, feed a
little to the

then eat the
rest myself.
I love to watch

the lilies in the
field spin and toil.

Thursday, August 18, 2011


The other Frost
was Randall
Jarrell's favorite
poet (after

Rilke). Mine too
(also after Rilke).
The other other
Frost, on the

other hand, wasn't
all that good, was
often bad, in fact,
like all those

other poets
who weren't Rilke.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011


Hitting rewind causes
rain to rise,
the sun to unset,
parting lovers

to reunite. Nothing
causes life to go
on as reliably
as death does,

though. Your
absence stutters
in the middle of
a sentence it

can no longer

Tuesday, August 16, 2011


Braille porn is
all the rage among
the short-sighted
these days. One

feels one's way
(gently) into the
unseen. It's said
to be a lot like

having sex at night
with the lights out,
which is when and
how 69% of all

sex acts are thought
to occur in any case.

Monday, August 15, 2011


A goal I gave
up on keeps
trying to reach
me, sometimes

by phone, more
often by force.
I frequently
cower in corners

goals are said to
fear (like angels
do when they're
treading). An

absence of air
vacuums me to safety.

Sunday, August 14, 2011


Taking medication
to control your
psychosis impedes
your ability to

control your psychosis
by beating your
neighbor to death
with a sledge hammer.

At least this is
what the most
recent studies
suggest. The most

recent studies also
suggest waiting impatiently.

Saturday, August 13, 2011


Think of a poem
as a made thing
God or somebody
like God planted

a tree in (God's
brother, perhaps).
The tree, an
infant sucking

at Nature's breast,
has a sibling
named "Forest".
Nobody can see

the sibling because
of the fucking tree.

Friday, August 12, 2011


Because of the way
things are now, our
women put up snow
in place of peaches

for the sweltering
months ahead.
They can hot
water to ease us

through winter's
god-awful chill. They can't
can anything for spring,
or say they can't.

We don't question what
they can and can't can.

Thursday, August 11, 2011


The economy of pleasure
is running out of gas.
We never go anywhere
anymore unless some

oboe tells us to.
Ether's everywhere,
waiting for its chance.
The moon spits

bits of yellow light
into a cluster of
motionless trees.
Opposites grapple

in the underbrush. What
happens next doesn't.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

E-Books available for purchase at

You can buy e-books of my poetry at for 2 dollars each. (links below)

August Again

New Zoos

The rope I'm often
at the end of is
the same rope I use
to tie myself up

when I see a burglar
approaching my house.
I have forbidden
my neighbors to

intervene on my
behalf because I
live in a big city
and don't want to

be known as the one
who inconveniences them.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011


Putting off suicide
until tomorrow is
actually a good
strategy. No one

knows what the
future will bring
if and when it
ever gets here.

And things do
sometimes improve
accidentally. You're
a lot more attractive

than you look, and
the sun also rises.

Monday, August 8, 2011


What shall I
write today? What
shall I write
today? What shall

I write today?
What shall I
write today? What
shall I write

today? What shall
I write today?
What shall I
write today? What

shall I write
today? A sonnet.


Even in the case of the best poets, only about 30% of a poet's work is actually worth reading. The other poems are akin to the sit-ups a boxer does to stay in shape. Rilke was, of course, the exception to this rule.

I'm leaving you
because I love
you and think
you deserve better.

Oh, fuck it.
I'll change. No,
I won't. I
would, but I

can't imagine
who I'd be
if I did.
I doubt you'd

like me in any
case. You're picky.

Sunday, August 7, 2011


A withered blue
tit, provided for
the poor to suck
on in their spare

time, is said
to be all the
filthy rich
assholes can

spare at this
time. Maybe
later, they
whisper behind

their smelly cigars,
maybe later.

The girls from Our
Lady Of Broken Promises
let boys sleep inside them
after school. They

worship Jesus
in their spare time,
but don't like the
Father and are

ambivalent about
the Holy Ghost.
Each one has
an imprimatur

stenciled into her
titty for good luck.

Saturday, August 6, 2011


Joseph of Cupertino,
the canonized saint,
is said to have
disobeyed the law

of gravity a number
of times during his
life here on earth.
He is also famous

for giggling in answer
to every question put
to him by the Inquisition.
He was ultimately

dragged before the Pope,
who though he was cute.

Friday, August 5, 2011


Some of your best
friends are language
poets. They don't
talk to you for

reasons that resist
being mentioned. I
swapped faith and
hope for charity

years ago. In fact,
I freak out when
someone loves Jesus
so much he feels he

has to grab me
by the ears and yank.

Thursday, August 4, 2011


My goal when I
was young was
to die on the cross
and worship my

death. I got over
this as quickly as
possible and built
myself a small

house on an acre
of irony outside
town. No one
visits me now,

but that's okay.
I visit myself.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011


A woman is
underground who
gave birth to me
before I could protest.

And her husband,
my father, underground
next door. I often
imagine them reaching

across the damp
earth holding
hands as they
discuss what has

and has not become
of me, their son.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011


One paratrooper mows
the lawn on his
way down. Another
is reading a book.

A third (the interesting
one) falls up instead
of down to avoid
reaching the ground.

His chute gets caught
on a branch jutting
out from a low-
hanging cloud. He

swings back and
forth like a pendulum.

Monday, August 1, 2011


When we die, we
do so mostly
out of habit.
Getting up in the

morning becomes
not getting up
in the morning.
Remembering to

take your medicine
becomes forgetting
to take your
medicine. Getting

nowhere fast remains
getting nowhere fast.