for Ruth Bader Ginsberg I, the day, consist of treesAnd rivers that escape throughThe talons of alphabetizing owlsHunched for themselves—And poised like poetsOf senescence, and intemperance ,And death defying stealth:The holiness of lifeEncoded in a wing span.
One hardly knew what to think. The grassHad fooled them with a breath of night air.When the zephyr arrived, it found certainMessages that not even a good godCould contradict. It was fateful, unfair,And convincing. It was an eve thatNo Adam could hope to increase or cease to love. Poetry depends on what all poets warnContinue reading “Beautiful Indigoes”
As always ‘The Blaze in the Haze’ arrives with badCommensurability, like comparing blood orangesAnd magic mushrooms; they kind of makeYou think your legs and arms have gone spastic.If you eat them—but whoa, wait, we don’tEat them. What do you think this is Lewis Carroll?We’re not hallucinogenic. Tall toad tales,Maybe, but that’s as far as IContinue reading “Froggy Talks”
Fall you will, but rise you must. —James Joyce The falcons form as a circle, as a gift Equal to what the gray, gay glasses beckoned to: The empty stretches of the empty lots, clue To the damage done by poetry left to drift, As it scatted in resplendent high spec gloss, His desk,Continue reading “Falcon Falls”
All echolalias can be real– a cheese, say, a nice smelly Brie— the smell repeated endlessly as to a hungry moon hunger that must be repeatable and repeated, sieved and saved, until the moon makes it true, not only echoed once, but again by two.
The mystery of rain: it falls alike on dirt and grass, on concrete and macadam; it falls until it stops, for the love of Mike, and it leaves the soil besotted, Madam.
The antenna-edged ants attack first. They attach a butterfly to a memory deep in our hearts. They turn to a transparent lie, as they try to match their skin with ours. That these ants get their smarts From bells and ringing shells, chords that detach to ply a misericordia of all the parts tooContinue reading “The Garden Butterfly”
Explain this to me. Hamlet has been here for two months now, shuffling around in the gloomy recesses of Elsinore—dreaming of a giant wave in a sea of troubles—and now, all he wants to do is get the swords out and duel in the surf. It seems he’s been taking lessons— The better to smiteContinue reading “Silent Tsunami”
Horatio is braggadocio Personified. It’s hard to believe. One minute, he’s cool as a mule, The next it’s like he has invented silence— But it’s a good silence, a probing silence A void devoid of what Claudius needs— A good cheerleader. When All the King’s Men, Get together again to play the play, The MurderContinue reading “A Dumb Show”