Category Archives: Poetry

Je veux to tell you something. It aurait tolka take a malinkee tiempo. Ils sont tolka words, words from a man. Short but not sliskom sweet.   Los intes smile with downward bouches. Vous savez un hombre selument quand il … Continue reading →

Color coded complete with picture I.D. We’ll teach you to be like us. Give you a turtle neck or bow tie You will be our kind of Mensch Complete with certificate of authenticity Credit rating and charge account, Security, savings, … Continue reading →

Birdened   Walking my way to a graduation advising session I think: Twenty-seven and still living at home.   My ripped-seam backpack stuffed with so much right-brain material. An awkward struggle of weight over my shoulder: my spine curls and … Continue reading →

This mantis wasn’t praying. At least the size of a ballpoint pen, this mantis stood blank against the concrete and turned his head to look at me. When our eyes met, I imagined that we were both meditating on this … Continue reading →

See the blue tablecloth spread with yellow dishes, the day’s eye glazing the window panes. It is mid- summer or maybe early spring, and floating up from the linden trees come voices spiced like saffron or rich as the African … Continue reading →

Meshed chain of crosses gyves your throat patent leather butterfly.  Just what farrago   do you fancy yourself moving along the frozen indigo lake of this asphalt stage?  Tripping, genuflecting:   what am I to do with you?  Turn of … Continue reading →

Because you are 60, because you have built your self a beautiful life on hard work, because you never expected anything less, because you are a brilliant doctor, because you have so much riding on it, because you don’t actually … Continue reading →

The splat must have been sickening. No net for this family. He was frozen by the fall, and he pulled himself up, never again pulling himself up, by the blood of the trapeze of the hapless little circus.   The … Continue reading →

We should sign up to see only people we like, like Albert Goldbarth, who dishes out a maelstrom of nipple-twitching, a lip ring in a dungeon.   I am so glad to have you to talk to. How can I … Continue reading →

They cup hands around the smolder like guarding bruised fruit. We never watch them   light the match, just know they burst with oxygen. If we’d witness the catch   and cultivation, spread of soft flame   underground (The roots … Continue reading →