Heisenberg’s Waiting Room

There are moments when
you are alone in a place
of human geography
peopled with many strangers,
and every one of them –
looking at you in side glances –
knows you
and your heart
And there is no water,

Just this folding weight
that crushes you
into a small point.

And this universe spinning out of your reach.

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I held your hand
as you sighed,
chest heaving
caving and rising,
that old cadence, that old chestnut rag.

“God is a bastard, a true SOB,”
I told you, patting at the sweat breaking beads on your brow.
“Your mother won’t tell me about it,
because vows and such.”

But I can see it,
in the way he moves around the yard,
listlessly mowing, not really into it,
always bitching about how
‘David made the whole thing up’, and
something about boning an asshole,
or… whatever.

Outside the window,
there are those damn crows.

He’ll try again.

Maybe a flaming sword,
swung round and round by another drunken angel
outside the garden,
just another ineffectual scarecrow
flapping in the wind.

After all that, despite all that,
he says the afterlife’s kind of a let-down,
that the mowing’s at least more interesting
than the harping.
And that he’d love to help.
but I know he’s a liar – and a drunk.
Did you know he forced his kid to make him _wine_?

True story.

I miss you.
But you figured out a path.

So kick Peter’s ass for me, along the way.
He’s earned it.

And it’s good to know
that love is the dominion of the dead.

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Intelligentsia S&M

“It makes my panties wet,

When you get literary like that”

So I locked eyes with her, 

And slowly mispronounced… “Proust”

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Quick Sand

Wallace Stevens
quickened at 46.
I may yet make order
on some beach
or another.

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spring flingin’

This is just to say
that I am in the back yard
there’s a red breasted robin feeding 5 feet away,
a woodpecker upside down at the same feeder and
a burning red cardinal sitting not far above.
Their songs call back and forth,
as far in the distance a hawk beats wings
towards the ocean
a black and yellow butterfly forming circles around
the base of the butterfly bush
I just chopped down low
(spring renewal can look like carnage)
the desiccated ornamental grass from last summer
lies bundled and chopped
under the long, chopped legs
of the butterfly bush
there’s a rabbit resting his head on my foot
there’s a World War II spotter plane
moaning through the sky above my head
the Merrimack hits the shores,
and I can hear the waves lapping
when the wind is right
this pilsner is lovely
and there is, for a moment, the purest clarity
Posted in Creative Writing, Poem, poetry, Uncategorized, Writing | 7 Comments

(zero attribute)

i keep thinking
there’s this room
i’m supposed to be in
and it’s all white
and glowing a little,
and my gown is matching
and my knees are up to my chest
my head is shaven
and my feet are bare.
and everything
is finished for me now

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Heart in England


I had a heart
when I was in England

Heart in England,
morning runs through cemeteries
racing with
Mary’s ghost, merging
with the mist amongst the cenotaphs,
vaporous fingers tracing ancient names
on leaning tombstones,
tracing sweat along my chest
this American boy
pumped legs
round and round,
lighter then, lithe even,
leaping stones
and roots, names
and faces.

Heart in England,
pints pulling,
Bald Faced Stag,
quiet surliness of the local crowd
losing its quiet as
the lager pours,
and that gorgeous, simmering
English anger roars…

Heart in England,
the people forged
by war and war and war,
invasion and repulsion,
the winnowing of the weak,
the island of the strong.
This fortress.

Heart in England,
the poet’s house
around the corner,
writ on water
my Scotch pours over an ancient grave,
the constant, multi-hued gray sky,
the cemetery grass in winter,
beneath my feet
for now.

Heart in England,
the poet in the walled city,
singing songs
love, lust, joy
sorrow. Some
human conditions.
Some rented truths.
Voice a constant
background hum,
hunters eyes just so,
in the dark and light…
English eyes.

Heart in England

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