Featured Poems Archive

mourning doves made
their nest above the porch again
stout-hearted they are
with their discreet
grey and heather feathers
eggs ready to hatch in summer heat

don’t touch it
I say to you, hesitating
not knowing if you already did
I’m leaving it this time
you say
a world is saved

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.

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.

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.


~~~

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...

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

direct sunlight
coming in the window

& shining on
the computer screen

while you are writing
a poem is a message

from the muse?
me neither.

Right now I have this on:



So many good lyrics, like:

Sometimes you feel like you've lived too long
days drip slowly on the page
you catch yourself
pacing the cage

SHITTY POEMS IN HELL

I have now started
and deleted 4 poems

what happens
to something
after it’s been deleted?

I don’t know

deleting them to oblivion
isn’t cruel enough

I hope I deleted those poems
all the way to hell

then if they come back
with
all their demons
they will finally be interesting

forget that

those poems put me in a bad mood

I wanna watch them burn
at the bottom of the seas of hell

squirming
and begging for life

which I will never give them

the needle between
tracks anticipates the edge
of a better song

A GOOD SMOKE

I lit her up

and smoked nude
except for my sunglasses
and Phillies cap

I didn't think
about a thing

I just inhaled and exhaled

and I felt like part
of the earth again

like a tobaccco leaf
jiggling in the wind

Three leaves on the big tree
have turned red
whispering to the green ones
it’s not worth waiting

Warren pulled his damaged Buick into the garage, noticing only one headlight reflecting on the back wall. He immediately closed the roll up door, then peeked frantically through its small window.

He wondered if there were any witnesses, and if the boy on the bike survived.

It is not too early for this day
to be a closet full of moths,

not too soon for these hours
to require days of rebuilding.

Last evening's storm
purged the summer air,

and the sun is barging in
like some cosmic liberator

bent on defeating the darkness
inside this little room;

but it cannot defeat
the darkness in me.

Hope is a frightened child
cowering in a corner -

I cannot coax it back
with baubles or sunlight,

so I set up the props
and whisper to myself,

where there are shadows
there must also be light.

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

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

you know how (iv)


when you get up
in the morning

to take a piss
& then you look

in the mirror
& see

how you look
like shit?

some of us are lucky
enough to live alone.

```

you know how (v)


when you are hungry
& you decide to cook

instead of ordering
a pizza

how the peanut butter
& jelly

doesn’t dirty a pan
& cause dishpan hands?

i wrote this poem
on a paper plate.

all became a thing yesterday
regarding these marks of ours
and we finished
on this
i hope you do not mind

pale words a clue in the breathing
the stone set left in barns
caught the words hopefully in burning hands thinking that the sky was clear
though in the past
never so far away