Featured Work Archive
no more tony tiger
while ralph ate cereal dotty swept the stars
and folded laundry
ralph bit with teeth
so bright the sun watched dotty replied with a basket
of sunday silence
swallowed her pride
while ralph rolled the chevy
on too many ballantines
with hard hands
ralph took dotty
into protective custody
he knew the suitcase at the top of the stairs was a sign
so was the thick mascara and lipstick
dotty never wore flats
they both bled that night
Rain. Again. For some reason the air
holds the smell of a struck match.
The breeze is loose around the walls,
tying itself up in the soon-to-bud lilacs.
Father’s breath shows and fades on glass.
I imagine he says if and I wait, still not knowing
his language, even after all these years,
all the things he might have meant.
Do I believe in God?
I go to church, but it’s political.
The shit I’ve done?
If God exists, he’d have to be a pussy!
Maybe in the clouds he has more balls—
but down in this world he has very little sway.
Not very godlike. Trust me.
“God’s a schmuck,” my father used to say.
“And so his followers are also schmucks.
If you want proof,
just walk around in Sheepshead Bay!
He even sent his son down to get crucified—
and look at Sheepshead Bay!”
That cracked him up.
My mother was a big believer, though!
She had a picture of Christ’s sacred heart—
that lantern shining in his chest!
My father mocked her for it.
“Dream on!” he derided.
“See if he can put a single beef roast
on your dinner table!”
If the two were candidates,
you must admit the polls would not be good—
the ticket-topper grouchy and aloof,
the VP hardly confidence-inspiring. Alright?
Jews did vote, actually. You know that.
wasn’t even close.
We live and let live, God and me. Okay?
The mechanism in my toilet tank is not working right.
I flush it and a few minutes later I hear a sound like rushing water.
It keeps doing this over and over again. It keeps me awake.
I must have done something bad to make this happen.
I don't know whether to stay in bed and pray that God will fix the toilet
or get up every time this happens, jiggle the handle
and hope that if I do this enough times something will catch
and eventually the sound of rushing water will stop.
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I doodle during the dull business meetings
when half of the time people are deciding
when is the next discussion. I shall
ask Derek for the summary tomorrow
I play Candy Crush on my way back
in the Metro. Today is the fifth day in a row
when I shall eat cornflakes for my dinner.
I shall cook some pasta tomorrow
The tap in the bathroom is leaking,
gas cylinder is empty, the lock of the main
door is jammed. I will call up the landlord
My girlfriend has dumped me
without giving any reason. She's
not even giving me the Netflix password.
I will call her up tomorrow
A Letter to Greta
“…so pitying and yet so distant,” Cecil Beaton
Among my father's posthumous
flotsam recently washed up in my house,
I found a letter, postmarked 1928,
addressed Miss Garbo Hollywood Cal
(Private!), stamped RETURN TO SENDER,
sealed unread and stored for sixty years
inside its author’s desk. Held to light,
the envelope revealed a trace of earnest
cursive written to a star flickered
on a million screens. I set a kettle
on the stove to steam the letter open
and expose the heart of this dead man,
once vestal boy, husband to three wives—
one widow, one dead, one faithless
(also dead)—fighter pilot with cleft chin
and good teeth whose friends had died
from too much war or too much booze,
who, if asked, what happens when you die?
would sip his drink and say, "you rot."
When the envelope at last unglued,
I found a time-fogged photo of a skinny
school-age boy standing contrapposto,
looking straight into my eyes. I slipped
the photo and unread letter...
I have chosen
this obscene love.
The cruel God in my heart
a home in my lust.
I make him
jealous by making love
to moonlit paper lanterns,
of the deceased.
I feel the sweat dripping
off bloated stars
I taste the mouth
of kerosene angels
like strangled pinatas
from crippled trees.
I suck the cruel
venom from virgin
I finger the lotus flower
in the dirty pond.
heart because it
cups the soft
breast of the frog
that's proof nature
is my whore.
I think you should confess to a priest
that you wiped your cock on the curtains
because she didn’t have a tissue.
It doesn’t work as a poem;
It isn’t art – that’s the issue.
I know the blowjob was intense for you
but posting a description devoid of irony
suggests, braggadocio, you’d like one from me.
I’m sorry, I’m taken; your oeuvre is mistaken.
Orgasm by stimulating genitals with genitals
objects, fingers, tongues and body parts
holds a clear fascination for you. But describing
how you practice on your own is not art at all,
I have read better poetry on a lavatory wall.
All holes filled. No holes barred. These
clichés I can read in an escort ad,
but you pad them out and hope that I ‘like’’
am I getting old, or is this sad?
Books are stacked in front
of other books. No room left
on the living room shelves.
Friends come over:
you've read all these?
I answer: most.
One asks: when do you find time?
I smile and shrug,
I walk toward the shelves,
pick up a book,
and off I go.
Perhaps it’s a sub-
on how I live
this re-occurring, irrational scenario;
on an ordinary obsidian night
while walking Porter,
I’ll be unaware—hunched-
as an inattentive driver
kissing the top of my head—
like a mother—
she nibbles on my lobe
breathes into me
as I stare at the ceiling
complicit in the act
but not really engaged
her huge breasts press
down on my rib cage
massive purple nipples
gyrate in my coarse chest hair
her hull rocks backwards
sweat drips from her frizzy fringe
onto my face
I readjust to stop the cramp in my thighs
Did you cum?
yeah baby I came
A smellephant lives down the lane.
He's got home cooking on the brain.
He cannot cook. He has four feet,
better for marching down the street.
Besides, he doesn't know a pan
from the lid of a garbage can.
When his belly starts to rumble,
door-to-door, he’ll sniff and stumble
after potatoes and juicy roast,
or coffee and some eggs on toast.
Hear his trumpet, let him in,
or a trampling might begin;
of gardens, and of outdoor toys.
Don't hide your food, or make a noise.
Just place it gently out the door,
so the smellephant will not roar.
He'll gobble it in seconds flat,
then be as docile as a cat.
sometimes I stare
at the wallpaper
count geometric patterns
watch the shadows fall
I smoke blunts
and speak to the effigy
who hangs on my wall
his pale blue robe fading
into the sea of Galilee
his eyes sharp and shiny
his smile soft
if I had a resolute bone
in my body
I could really love that guy.
i used to cut out food
because i could
because i wanted to see
i used to cut my skin
because i could
because i wanted to see
i used to cut out people
because i could
because i wanted to see
my own soul
see if I liked it
now I cut out shapes
concertinas of hands
all the waste paper
floats to the floor
i keep what's beautiful
because i can
because i don't want to see
hard to define
from high above a space boot lands on juniors farm
then a hand
and a foot
and a leg
from knee down
few lucky men
find a woman's heart
with chest ripped wide open
that kind of emotional trauma
leaves a scar
thigh bones and a skull
all the flesh torn away
many souls lost in the lover's triangle
old folks remember
twin flames burning in the atmosphere
fragments of poem
found in a field rare collections
in an old pine box
when the sun burns out
only moon will understand
couldn't tell if it was a woman
or a man
What am I?
Fuck yeah! I have a Remington .308 bolt action scoped rifle and hundreds of triple rounds with the name of every establishment shill that took advantage of humanity written on the casings. I wrote it so I can save them for posterity. Three rounds for each in case they run and I miss at first.
I've been called a Feste in my circling. Life needs to be lived as a joke and God is definitely a mosquito.
If you are a man, this may be my weakest suit because I don't love dicks. I love you, but I won’t do that. Women can rest easy knowing I love all of them, there are no flaws that don't taste like something good.
Ask my interns, I would do anything for them with nothing in return.
It is all a matter of timing. Keep your head when everybody else is losing theirs. Only lose yours when nobody else is watching. I eat the Federalist papers for breakfast. Humble and kind, yeah, but don't ever say I am because we know...
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