Featured Poems Archive

The Second of July

I have reached the peak
that came quietly
like this half overcast sky
ending in a pastel sunset
pierced by lingering gulls
where margins have been breached
and suddenly the lack of rain
begins to take everything it once owned
with an orange vista
that is a long downslide to autumn

pasty white is the new tan

my skin has lost the ability
to produce melanin
& i wear colorful clothing
so the emt’s can find me
when it’s time to resuscitate.
i strip in front of cliffs
at nude yoga retreats in dover
& i am lost in sunshine,
that if it weren’t for hair
on my chest & nether
i’d have no discernible hues at all.
rising from the sea
i become brushstrokes,
a feathered demigod of little substance
in shades of white & shadow,
an impression of desire
for the artist’s eye
my partner seems to have.
he sees the presence of all color
in the light reflected from my body
& he assures me that tan
was never all it was said to be.


~~~

She molds us all with an imperceptible touch. Egoless,


her un-staged wit and grace elicit devoted following.


We’ll do anything for it—her smile, or laugh, of approval.

when you peel a ripe banana
how sometimes

the skin leaves
long, thin pulpy threads

stuck on the sweet fruit?
i hate those fucking stringy things.

One Winter Closer

He staggered in the door
weak from sweat
It was just a simple trip to the store
but the heat had made it
an expedition to the Amazon

Goddammit get us out of this summer
How long is it until November

The old man cooled off
and smoked what could easily be
one of his last cigarettes
as could this summer

Watching a dove land on the fence
he suddenly knew
and spoke softly to himself

Stay summer
Be slow
I can stand your heat
It’s the long dark cold I fear
One winter closer

Jan came into the room, sat down in the rusted
lawn chair, opened a bottle of cola and pushed her
feet up onto the table. It was the kitchen
table, and the living room
table, and the television
table.

Jan and Harry had, in short, just one other
piece of furniture:
the mattress.

“Shit,” Jan said, taking a gulp
of coke.

“What's wrong, Jan,” Harry said—
“just the usual?”

“Uh uh,” she said. “This time it's worse.
This time I've had it, and I may never go back.”

“Jan,” Harry said, “some day we're both going to die,
and if we die the usual way, like everybody else, we'll
most likely be apart when it happens, maybe one of us
at work while the other one kicks off. Anyway, we haven't
worked it out the usual way so far; why shouldn't we die
together? What I'm saying is, quit the damn job; let's starve
together or take enough drugs together so that we both
kick off.”

“I don't know if I want to kick off, though,” Jan said.
“Why can't you get a job for awhile and let me stay home...

AND YOU THOUGHT YOU STEPPED INTO THE WORLD OF POETRY

he’s got a book of poetry
where every poem
begs the question

“So what!?”

then you realize
you haven’t read poetry

then you see
you don’t have a book

it’s not even in your hands

something smells like manure
but it’s not that

it’s horseshit

and you’ve just stepped in it