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Category Archives: Poetry
Prairie Shapes
Braid metallic twine, the backyard diamond’s lattice. Thin shadow-grass spears cloud. Between the birdsong of posts heat breathes gravel. Membrane-shell cracks in fractals. From scales of robin-blue, dirt tills dawn. Wire teeth sing war cries like August lightning. Distanced grey … Continue reading
Divination Pastoral
In the stitching of an aubade or something dawn, your flesh swells with yeast and pulses, traffic-like. Each vessel in your thigh pinched vulture-black, each capillary swaying blue. Each dependent reaction laps the edge of action. Of course, the necessity … Continue reading
Belle Isle
There is a retreat in your fingers. The wheel drives the water, drives distance. Something like a melody carves sand and shell. Your voice shards from window to mirror. I sing the gray cloud’s din of rock and leaf. Waves … Continue reading
Dream Litany
The stone churches huddle together along Elmdale and love one another in stained glass, or the way a set of knees rub apologetically against the stained wood pew. I could enter the church, anoint self: Head, sternum, clavicle to … Continue reading
For the self, the non-self, memory, or An Act of Whirling
This would happen if I was a stone in a sling shot, an arc between mouths or the result, a stove-in cranium, a tangent happening. A touch or mouths touching, a sling. My broken collar bone. Your broken language (un)happens, then … Continue reading
Take this Vision with your Mouth Closed
Here is where our small hairs become stands of rib cages cross- sectioned and fraying gray matter. It is in this space, the white turns body to a point, blind. When we lie with each other in my skull and … Continue reading
As I Grew Old One Night
All the photos emptied themselves out. My people slipped through the emulsion into darkrooms developing evidence of other senses. The creek ran dry at the crime scene. The clink of porcelain against flatware in a sink teetering atop a landfill. … Continue reading
Thermodynamics of Laundromats
Lonely at the laundry mat, the kids gun-play rat-a-tat and I sat in soap dissolving, watching your lost socks revolving. So goes the pop song I started writing for you, and the things you left charged and clinging to flesh … Continue reading
Ruins
I wandered through the ruins of Ayutthaya, carefully measuring my steps to avoid knocking over the broken stones, withered walls, and headless statues. Careful. Measured. Steps. To keep the silences from making noise. I’d like to keep things the way … Continue reading
My Philosophy of Smell
Onion reek of tears. Mushrooms have the same aroma of the earth. Grapefruits fill one’s nose with deceitfulness. A whiff of a ripe banana is unfriendly and a clementine aggressive. An apple has a soft radiant quality to it, like … Continue reading
Meditation On Seasons Of The Body
Summer comes first. Always, summer comes first with a sunlight-like weight upon your shoulders. Everything, everyone is a light bulb, a candle that cannot be blown out despite the murderous winds. Pleasure dresses the unknown. Wonder builds an unexplored city. … Continue reading
Leftovers
You place the box of General Tso’s in the fridge, knowing you’ll never go back to it, just as you should have never brought home Mark again. Still, you asked the waitress to box it up, accepting that neglect is … Continue reading
At the Poetry Workshop
Outside, the bay is that August blue Of sailboat masts, White spires beyond the shore. The workshop leaders want us to Write with other people’s words, Describe something that shows What we believe. In this long day We are quickened, … Continue reading
Ridge Pike
The poet was talking about his father: You’d think after all these years, he said, I’d have this figured out. Set me rummaging Through the messy desk drawer of time: Gray December drives on Ridge Pike— Conshohocken, Manyunk— To Shibe … Continue reading
By the Meadow: June 2007
Betsy Winbourne, now eighty, Rakes hay in the meadow at midday— You would not do this a month from now; Up from Boston, opening the cottage. No sign of the Woodleys; They say his tumor has come back, His fields … Continue reading
Philadelphia Stories
1. The Camp Counselor 1951, at a camp in the north woods, First time away from home: Most of the boys in our cabin knew each other From their fine schools on the Main Line. The rest of us, from … Continue reading
Newtown, Connecticut
A place like Sandy Hook has all the swell of beachfront idle, distending bewilderment in spite of the panoramic view. Things are lurking. There are persistent rumblings beneath the sand, muted cries by deathly crabs eating their own claws, struggling … Continue reading
What could be better than a hot mug of French roast?
A job. Any job – a factory job, an office job, blowjob, jobbers, doing the J-O-B on P-P-V*, once my dream job you know, to wear vinyl underwear and grow sweaty amongst sweaty men for crowds and strips of gold, … Continue reading
Cass
A wasp dogfights a honey bee until all that remains is a sweet empty husk, a burned out passenger car littered with comb ash, with no flowers left at the edge of a chalk road – only dead porcelain bees … Continue reading
How to draw on influences
Spit tobacco juice on a gravel road until Jackson Pollack appears. Tell him everything is equal. Show him your painting technique. Let him make a portrait of your Skoal can jean ring. Point to its center and say “This is … Continue reading
Repacks
One day a week I work in the warehouse of a certain arts and crafts store, and my primary expertise is in repacks. They are called repacks because they must be repacked. Wrinkled boxes stuffed with acrylic paint and four-by-six … Continue reading
Hollow two
The toes, however they may whisper, will welcome the cold bones of mice lying beneath the wilting leaves browned by wet and clouded sunlight leaking from the feathers fresh and phallic from the heights of skinny trees ensconced in breezes … Continue reading
Hollow one
Fallen trees trip the trails but hold the heavy handprints. The creek runs in place. Tonight, the owls will ovulate beneath Orion, hooting high below the bulging hills until the mice all call the evening closed. Branches will break under … Continue reading
Bequeathal
I don’t know you, never did. I know your name, and that you had no color although in your later days you gained too much as if overcompensating for grayscales, and that your wife could walk when she had two … Continue reading
Redefining the crow
What we need is a conference. There will be plentiful trays of various cheeses and types of cracker, and large screens with tree branches and skyscapes projected upon them, and chairs! Chairs with dulled paisley printed cushions holding folders and … Continue reading
