Monday, August 31, 2009


Adopt a scorched earth policy.
Don’t mind me. See if I care.
I’m just telling you which way
the wind blows. Please keep
in touch. My verdant spear
is lagging these days. Oh well.
We’ll always have the harvest.
The husk of my divine visage
left behind to anoint the pilgrims’
feet before they cross the river.
I hate reruns…

Friday, August 28, 2009


I think we live with the demon's maw
snapping at our coat-tails, and angels
loaning out wings to get us further
down the flight path. I think I just
wandered off the reservation, and you
might suggest a way back. I think
the blood of innocents makes a decent
disappearing ink, I think you left tracks
wherever you went, in the fine, pearly snow…

Thursday, August 27, 2009


I can’t see what’s in front of me,
but I’m sure you’re all there.
The space between raindrops
constitutes a massacre.
It’s what I call, “a blind.”
A dark spot behind the eyes
and way past a prayer, it’s
both cataract and cure.
It’s where the story begins
and ends, it’s when you can’t
see what’s right in front of you
but you’re sure it’s all there…

Sunday, August 23, 2009


Out my window are the sounds of war,
cacophonous explosions over the East River
and I wonder if NYC is under attack
at this late hour, but then lightening flashes
and the rain comes seething down
and I realize it’s just a storm front
blowing in, a furious story
to suddenly overtake us…

Sunday, August 16, 2009


Shuck and jive, shock and awe,
take the bait and then look
at all the pretty lights.
The cripple looks down
the corridor, and wonders
how much he can absorb.
We are legless for convenience,
but that only increases our advance,
a soundless stampede. Our eyes
give us away, the prisoners’
leaden teletype that says,
“We are home, but that home
has been hollowed out from us.

Please let us stay…”

Wednesday, August 12, 2009


I am the sum of my parts, and then some.
I am often called William, though that
is a misrepresentation, recalling
my essay, “Myth-Making on the Back Burner”
but we’ll save that lesson for another day.
I am less than I am, but more than you.
When we get close to the center,
I’ll make sure you pass through.
A needle-eyed hindsight
so certain it’s pure…

Sunday, August 9, 2009


….can lead to a very smite-able
contract dispute, where the dotted line
is dashed with dawn-of-time and all
attendant baggage, and the heavenly
choirs are talking trash behind your back
in perfect harmony, and you can count
all the angels you want on the head
of a pin, until the needle drops,
and you’re left standing,
mute and pure as milk, your only
line from an already minor production
suddenly excised….

Saturday, August 8, 2009


…already put the kibosh
on the word-of-mouth,
and just when you were done
worshipping the end of the line.
Your allegiance spells dust.
You can’t say the first word
of forgiveness, the dead
are swept under the chalice,
but still, this is the realm
you’re most comfortable in?
Remind me why I’m blind…

Monday, August 3, 2009


Hello. You seem to be
holding up well. Are you
the worst for wear, do you need
any special mommy-coddling,
or a credit for a free dinner?
Look at you. You’re a bag of bones,
unformed, a bent fetal Hail Mary,
delicious. I’d name you Clay,
but that would be redundant.
Look at what you are
in my hands….