Poetry

It’s an art to suck the marrowfrom a bone, a womanwho lived through povertyonce said to me. My owndebt-to-income ratio drives meto drink, in the afternoon, andat night. The neon strobe lightsat our favorite club illuminateyour face, before it shuttersand closes off. In the end,happiness and meaningare irreconcilable differences,especially on the dance floor.I am passionate,…

He sits in the hallwayreading one of those magazinesabout famous military campaigns,all the grand deeds of valor and futility.He is a father, he is a son,jaws of a hungry animal.A storm passes to the west,cutting then restoring our slim cord of light.Hard rain on the pavement,heard but not seen.Zebra finches flicker in their cageat the…

Our daughter never puts her mind on displayLike a jewel too precious to own, or an animalToo wild to cage. At church she’s able to sit still,But then for weeks rattles off the names of poisonousSnakes and admonishes us that knowledge liesOnly outside of Creation. She stops playing in the yardBecause the tomatoes have turned…

So quiet you can hearthe Archer drawing his bow,the Moon powdering her face,the elegant axle of creation turning.A tiny iridescent frog appearedon the lip of the toilet bowl this morningas if waiting to receive us.He seemed to be the king of somethingyet made no protestas we ushered him outsidein a loose wad of tissueand set…

A chain of crushed nouns has upended my mind.It’s o.k. It’s all right, pretended my mind. A quick cut. A small nick. A surgical touch.O Penthidine, Tramadol, so splendid my mind! Ram drew back the string of King Janak’s great bow,Sita shot through the lifetimes and tended my mind. Monkeys and blossoms, a long metal…

Little brother drinks his neon sadness liquid—no onehas a healthy relationship with Mountain Dew. Large, no ice. That means more pop for his buck. Who knows if he enjoys the stuff anymore. I think it’s less aboutsavoring those extra sips and more about putting offthe empty cup, that undrinkable last bit that rolls around the…

If 1 is the name of your best friend from sixth grade,which, for no reason, you remember right now,standing in your socks on the cold tile of the examination room and 2 is finding your car in the parking lot laterand noticing how dirty it has become—the back seat litteredwith plastic wrappers and sales receipts—and…

One thing’s for sure; in the future, the morgues are going to be full of tattoos.It’s going to be more colorful, and easier to manage:“Hey Jeff, move Dolphin-Shoulder-Girl to Tray Seven.”“And get Mr. Flames-On-My-Neck out for the doc.” In Italy the tabloids are talking about the “Ambulenza di Morte,”The Ambulance of Death;a medic who was…

You are your father’s broad back                         re-writ in small script. Your feet, like his,grasp the soil, confident      the planet will never spin too fast                     to throw you off. I never was so sure. I spent most of my childhood watching                the clouds                move while I stayed still.                           In this way I was always an observer….