It’s by Here

I don’t know about you, but I have been feeling the need to do something positive for the world, and here it is! This book was just published by the Four Windows Press. And not only does contain ten poems by me, it’s got thirty other poets who are doing some of the best writing

Beautiful Indigoes

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 warn

Froggy Talks

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 I

So He Lives

The day Rilke knew where Picasso had secretedThe painting he had finished in 1905Called ‘The Family of Saltimbiques’, —and since he had come to feel its urgency—He made plans to go to the castle whereIr was domiciled. He wrote, With all its eyes The animal world beholds the Open.But how could this be true?The Open

Hallelujah

Falcon Falls

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,

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Where We are Made

Most excellent day, please introduce me to your spouse.  I have for so long been a fan Of the way she smiles, the way she folds her lips against your teeth, so like a tiger, so like The cages and nests those beasts seem to need for your coarse and often boring litany. She holds

Every Eve

Every Eve was beautiful. She formed A reflection of a reflection that lots Of people would think of as a home. Every Eve knew that love can tie knots In laughter. She knew that love was like a poem That must live among the living—and outfox The dead. She came to settle, she came to

An Echo, eh?

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.