Is This the Street I Grew Up On?

recent short poems

My Endemic

My Endemic. Scraping another night at the chin, the lights are brilliant with wine and cigarettes window shopping for the holiday in advance of nothing to buy. Someone tells me it will be okay,

A Snarl in the Pocket

A Snarl in the Pocket. Jack Mead, a sentient man. A man on whom the street opens. Collides. Fishes around in his guts like rusty hooks. Swallowed a long time ago when they were sharp. My little uglies. He referred to them. His viscera, scraped, churning, leaking out.

Abyss, a poem.

Abyss. What words are these like paper in my teeth? When we open our windows in the morning they will not sound, and yet we throw them each night into our emptiness, lowering ourselves

Boom.

Boom. All of this hell up into me precious little stem - where go not flower? where go not wilt? where go not die? where go not break a little by day and split at

Come Clown, Let's Go

Come Clown, Let's Go (for my dog Shaft) Andiamo pagliaccio vieni qui! The morning nuts are slippery. Let's walk over them slowly and climb the hill just like the old days, smelling eucalyptus

Will You Please

An voyeur poem.

Interstate 40, Poem (Cycles I-V for Joe M.)

Interstate 40, Cycles I-V. (for Joe M.) I. Flying over Atlanta neighborhoods segregated by winter woods. A bare-tree parapet, pipeline for rusted cars and thieves.

Nine Pound Paulie, A Poem.

A song a day for you, I hustle out of thin air spirituals or old blues mostly of fatherhood and desperation, your limbs relaxed on my chest like wet leaves- for me the years ahead are a weight

The Edge of Sleep, a poem

The Edge of Sleep. I watch the dust settle in on the morning light. Epidermis and cosmos dance a helix - silent messengers from the bracket worlds, paratroopers in a clandestine