The real uncle sam
GIs came home after WW2, raised hell for a while, Read More
then found a wife and looked around for a house.
Markets provided prefabricated house kits, delivered to your lot. Pre-fabs.
Buy them on the GI Bill. Put them up in a few days. Crackerbox houses.
Square, plain, two bedrooms, kitchen, bath and living room. Plywood. A
few of them are still around. Crackerbox houses.
Thoughts Are Not Feelings
Between blankets and sleep, sleep and death rolls hard red apples, day old
bread, liverwurst, fingerless gloves, frayed shoelaces, nine pregnancies, six live
births, red-brick walls, tarnished forks with bent tines and a topless jelly jar where flies
procreate. My thighs wake to cold.
Not snow-cold children pray for with carrot nose snowmen sledding down hills. Read More
Not ice cold cubes clanging against sides of a sparkling tumbler swishing an orange rind,
maraschino cherry, barrel-aged rye, and a sugar cube. Not chills or sneezes.
A BEAST IN THE CHAPEL
Several times I asked my father
to pull on my ears
until my feet were lifted off the ground.
Several times I asked him
to look into my eyes
and blow out the red lanterns—
those soft pendulums Read More
that keep me up at night,
twin stars of vermillion arias.
I Fall in Love with a Photo of e.e. cummings in a New Yorker Magazine While in the Waiting Room of an Opthamologist’s Office
it's black and white
he's looking intently
away from the camera at
a parade of lower case 'i’s
a hyphened world
linear time and rhyme
disappear in a desert
of white stallions Read More
When my students ask me how to use the future tense,
I tell them that we use “will”
for a promise or a threat.
I will always love you, for example.
And to make a plan, we use the “present continuous,” Read More
When I open the letters
more than words fly out;
bees alert for the first hint of pollen
crawl out between the pages,
circle my head and disappear. Read More
stands of green
I think of your
back home Read More
so far away
Hello, you say—
my heart bounces
in and out of my shoes
skids across the desk
—a blizzard of memos—
splashes down in my cup of tea. Read More
When all becomes quiet and still
I always find myself looking for the person I used to be.
When all endings become beginnings and
The hours seem to have dissolved into
I always find myself wondering
Where have I been? Read More
I’m sending you this message
to deny that I am deceased.
However, as the general consensus
would have it, I may be, like you,
extinct. What I was as an active, younger man
no longer exists. That life is gone.
I Saw the Crows of Summer Charge the Powder Blue Sky
I saw the crows of Summer charge the powder blue sky
Roadwork on the freeway could not stop their mission
Technology w/ all its posture could not halt their flight
Like midnight ink splattered on sunny white sheets Read More
Awareness comes slowly:
The soft darkness,
the quilt on the bed, the stalking
shapes of furniture. My eyes
tunnel down to a pinprick of light. Read More
In Pelican, they say the dump, a mile outside of town, is the only place with cell service.
And so he clomps off the boat
and off the float, up the ramp,
away from town, hot showers,
a fresh bag of flour, and stamps Read More
I am a dog with no master
Proud and hungry
Go where I want
Envied by shampooed, collared pedigrees Read More
Fu Manchu, a caricature,
the Chinese, sinister,
popularized in Hollywood,
spread to all neighborhoods.
there are only moments now
when illness is forgotten,
when the woman you once were
returns to your skin
and a trick of imagination
sees you sprint to the corner
I walked up the pavement and there, much to my delight, was a tienda, a store selling beer and wine and hard liquor, jammed full of people. I bought a big 40 oz. can of Tecate’. There was a quaint little park almost directly across the street from the store. I sat down at a bench, intending to pull out my weed and pipe and have a little toke to go along with my beer. Read More
The trees can be read. Read More
Do you not think that birds
Are the most literate creatures
On earth? Time encircles some,
In Salem, the winter fog settles at sundown Read More
like gauze, blinding and oppressive,
a cold, wet blanket of
Fuck You For Being Here.
On such an evening, I imagine
John Fahey in some shithole welfare hotel,
perhaps the Holiday Lodge on Hawthorne.
… awake now
a little disoriented
Something crunchy perhaps –
a Nevada snow shadow
it melts in your warmth to provide water in the sun Read More