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AMERICA

Drummed out of the infantry of death

I came back to you carrying the

Poems of my soul

Opened the door of life

And found only death inside

America

I have read the state of the union

And listened to the state of the economy

By statesmen in a state of hysteria

America where the

Poor and the black

Are sentenced to Attica

And the rich serve time at San Clemente

America where the

Coal miner's lungs are used

For corporate profit

Where the only sounds that can be heard

Is the opening and closing of the

Downtown Bank of America

America where the angry voices

Of soccer moms can be heard

Preparing their children for death

Amidst the hurried jerks of masturbation

Coming from the closets of the university

America where the elderly are treated

Like abandoned railroad boxcars

Kept idle unemployed

Forced to walk the streets

Like an unacceptable poem

America

It's hard living in a country where the

Hours are shaped like coffins

The law and order administration

Running wild at Waco and Ruby Ridge

America where the politicians sold the

Country to General Motors and IBM

And gave the people buffalo stew

And scientology

Readers Digest has renewed its option

On the educational system

The mafia weans the poor on drugs

While McDonald's and Coca Cola

Compete for the nation's heart

America

You leave a trail of death behind

Everywhere you go

Desecrating the bodies of men

Women and children

From Wounded Knee to Vietnam

Leaving behind a trail of genocide

As your calling card

America

Where the Narc's of New York City

Grow fat on the fears of thousands

Of junkies

Where the high priest of the cemetery

Drinks the rooster's blood

At the crossroad of reality

America

Where holiness is found in the

Bowels of Buddha

Where Christ died on the cross

And the police were quick

To take his place

America

The years grow heavy in the

Cavity of my heart

Leaving me feeling

Like an army mule carrying

A cargo of death

Your bicentennial message

Ringing loud and clear

In every cash register across

America

The American way

If you can't kill them

Buy them into the system

America

I grow older carrying

A new found vision warmer that

A child's smile

Walking the streets of my mind's

Third eye

Lady death blinking like the

Flickering candles on a birthday cake

America

You are the only county I have known

For any length of time

And unlike some poets

I have no desire for Cuba or Moscow

But I am a man

I am a poet

I am the energy running through

Your withered veins

Not afraid of your shock and awe

Your disregard for international law

All too aware of the storm troopers

Of justice

Who would turn off the beauty

And discard it like a rusted faucet

These men in blue

Who sniff the blood of my wounds

Like a hound dog crossing

A river of blood

Their sirens playing mad tunes

Outside my window

Like a poet forced to read underwater

Where the poet twice dead

And once resurrected

Turns over in his grave

But the middle finger he raises

Is jammed back down his throat

Until the shit he shits is theirs

And the blood they bleed is his

And the cries united

Fill the air

Like a lonely bird

Lost in flight

  POEM FOR A POET FRIEND

 I know this poet who plays
The Poetry Biz game
Knows how to trade favors
In 24 different flavors
His days pass faster than
The muteness of his message
He could have been a standup comedian
A burlesque dancer
Had he been born a woman
This master weaver spinning tales
Like Jerry Lewis courting
Abbot and Costello

Seriousness is being treated
Like  a sickness
A cancer to be avoided
Its grand slams and elite poetry festivals
Run by Grand Marshals and their elves
The wasteland of blurred visions
Lies like an idle landmine waiting
To explode in the minds of circus clowns 
These poets have become
Wizards of attack

To them a crisis is a loose bowel movement
A skipped heartbeat or two
But what of the crisis
Of the social system
A system of calculated murder
A system of chemical
And environmental cancer
A system of the poor and elderly
A system of sadness
How do I laugh about this
How do I laugh about
My brothers in prison
My dead comrades racing across
blood stained clouds.

Their bruised feet bringing down rain
A rain that does not cleanse
But leaves behind
Scars and torn flesh
And still the games go on
Red poets who write
love songs for Stalin
Populist poets turned businessmen
Hanging out at Spec’s
Courting the favors of the elite
Campaigning to be
T
he next city Poet Laureate  

I can’t wear the easy grin
It is an ill-fitting suit
My mind is a tailor who fits m
e
With needled threads
And yes there is a place for laughter
And I too can pen a funny line
But poetry is more than laughter
More than stepping up on stage
One hand on the poem
The other on the applause meter
And it was a Russian poet who said
"The function of poetry must be
To make us blush with shame.”
And it was an American poet who said
”The dams reverse themselves
And want to go stand alone
In the desert."

That is why these poems are sad
The long-dead running
Across the fields
The masses sinking down
The light in the children’s faces
F
ading at six and seven
These are the voices I heed
Knowing the poet must believe
In what he says and writes
That a poet's responsibility
Goes beyond the written word
A poet must be angry
But he must be able to sing too
His words must melt
Like sweet honey
On a blistered tongue
For flat-backed whales sing
and birds sing
But my poet friend has forgotten
How to sing
It shows in his eyes
It shows in his nervous laughter
It shows in his words on the page
 
My poet friend writes a poem a day
He spends his time in coffee houses
And courts the favors
Of power brokers
He does not visit the jails
The prisons the forests
The bowery
The freezing North Dakota dawn
He does not feel the whisper
That passes over the plains

  REMEMBERING BOB KAUFMAN

 

He walked the streets of North Beach

 An ancient warrior with hollow eyes

 That seared the dazzling lights of the

 City by the bay

 His eyes boring into you like a drill

 Carrying decades of heavy sorrow on his back

 Like a bent-over hunchback

 Overcome with the rust of time

 Flesh stripped to the marrow

 The mirror of his eyes doing a slow dance

 Up and down Grant Avenue

 A dark shadow riding clouds of "Ancient Rain"

His life measured in hot jazz and verse

A surreal mirage where hip cats

Wailed in precision rhythm

As he walked an imaginary zoo

Looking for tigers to talk too

Runaway poems blaring in his ears

Like a stuck car horn

The Ancient Rain falling

                Falling

                                Falling

Washing away his wounds

 

POEM FOR JACK MICHELINE

 

He was the high note of a wailing saxophone

The spark that ignites a fire

He was a shot of tequila

A glass of imported beer

A shaman

A vagabond poet shuffling words

Like a river-boat gambler

Ravished by illness

Ravished by time

He painted his visions on canvass

In parks in bars and coffee houses

His poems singing out across the

Streets of America

Pure innocence pure genius

Spinning words that hung in the air

Like a hummingbird drunk on

The pollen of life

 

WOMAN ON THE BALCONY

 

I see her two three

times a week

sitting on the balcony

when weather permits

here in old Italy town

in what is left of North Beach

her robe slightly parted

thumbing through the pages of a book

she may or may not be reading

taking no notice of the people down below

standing to stretch she yawns

legs like sturdy pillars that stretch

to reach the sky

Into the boundaries of my mind

my eyes begging to read the pages

she turns with sensual fingers

wanting just one quick look

one intimate journey into the pages

into the space between

the parting of her robe

a journey to forbidden places

a flight back in time

to another place another world

high on a balcony where I too

ignore the people coming and going

down below

 

DIGITAL AGE

I told you not to take a snapshot

I don't photograph well

But you did nevertheless

And sent it to me by means of attachment

And there it was on the screen

In black and white the only colors that matter

And it split into two parts on the screen

Neither of them doing me justice

An injustice I am sure not intended

This faceless face staring back at me

Smashed into a thousand lines

This snapshot more like an empty face

Stuffed away in a shoebox

In the far corner of a closet

Like a series of quick winks lost

In cyber space

 

ON MY WAY TO BECOMING A MAN

 

On my way to Lackland Air Force Base

The train stopped to take on passengers

Giving me the chance to get off

Stretch my legs and relieve myself

On returning from the men's room

An elderly black man approached me

Wanting to know where the restroom was

And when I pointed in the direction

Of where I had just come from

He shuffled his feet nervously

And said, "No, the colored room"

And being naïve and from the North

I had no idea what he was talking about

When suddenly a woman came running

Out from behind a concession stand

Her face red with anger

Yelling for the old man

To leave me alone

As I tried in vain

To calm her down

Telling her it was all right

He was only looking for

The Men's room

"That boy knows where the colored room is"

She said, shooing the old man away

As I boarded the train

Turning to see him

Bent over a "colored" only

Water fountain

As the train picked-up steam

Sparks flying from the tracks

Taking me on my way

To becoming a man

Where I would have

My serial number branded into

My head

And made to wear a dog tag

Around my neck

To remind me

I was the property

Of Uncle Sam

 

PANAMA TEN

 

Two political prisoners were sitting

In their jeep with two

Panamanian National Guardsmen

Outside a bar in town

The two Panamanian Nationals

Went inside to check the bar

Leaving the two men

Handcuffed outside alone

Once inside the guardsmen spoke

To the bartender

In a language

I couldn't understand

When suddenly there was an explosion

Coming from outside the bar

And without looking the

Two guardsmen laughed

And downed their tequila and beers

While outside you could see

The flames engulf the jeep

The two prisoners lit up

Like two scarecrows

Tossed into a bonfire

 

PANAMA MEMORIES

 

The young Panamanian girl

Sitting alongside

Her sister dressed only

In panties and bra

Reading a comic book

And chewing on bubble gum

At a brothel called

The Teenage Club

Waiting for the first

GI's to arrive

Six girls lined-up

Like bowling pins

Rooted to the long

Wooden bench with

Zombie like stares

Doing a woman's thing inside

A child's body

 

RETURNING HOME FROM PANAMA

 

They had this bar at Ocean beach

Called the Chalet

It used to be a hangout for vets

The American Legion boys

Most of them fat and balding

The years piling up like litter

One so old that

He claimed he was gassed in

WW 1

You never knew whether

To believe him or not

He just sat there staring

Talking into his beer

Humming a song:

OVER HERE OVER THERE

And using terms like

Dough Boy and Pill Box

And you just somehow knew

He had to have been there

Was still there would always

Be there

 

I KISS THE FEET OF ANGELS

 

                dark starry night

                fog creeping in

                over the hills

               raindrops falling

               on the window

                I see the faces of old friends

                staring at me

                ghosts from the past

                freight trains steam ships

                subway trains carrying

                their cargo of death

                Corso the mad hatter

                Baudelaire

                Lorca fed a meal of bullets

                Kaufman black messiah

                walking Bourbon Street

                eating a golden sardine

                Micheline drinking with Kerouac

                at the old Cedar Tavern

                Jesus wiping the perspiration

                From his forehead

                the foghorn playing a symphony

                inside my head

                I hear the drums

                I feel the beat

                I kiss the feet of angels              

         

 OLD WARRIOR OF NORTH BEACH

 

He walks the streets of North Beach

Looking like an old man

With eyes empty as a broken parking meter

Unemployable weighed down by the years

His mind heavy as an anchor dragging

The bottom of the ocean floor

Forgotten rebel playing old ballads

In the shipwreck of his heart

His mind destroyed by shock treatments

And one too many police batons

At night he dreams

He ‘s riding with Geronimo

Has imaginary conversations

with Charlie Parker

Rides the ferry with Miles Davis

Getting off at Bourbon Street

To down a drink with Kerouac

He shares a cigarette with Charlie Chaplin

At the old Bijou theater

Walks the battlefields with Walt Whitman

Rides the plains with Red Cloud

In search of the last buffalo

Walking the streets of North Beach

In search of the elusive ginger fish smell

Death a sightless chauffeur

Waiting like a concubine facing another

Apocalyptic day

 

 CITY POET

 

Once addiction sets in

There is no stopping it

You become a serial killer

Attacking the keyboard at will

Your mind working in shifts

Strange creatures live inside your head

Show no mercy give no ground

Forcing your fingers to do their bidding

Writing down your thoughts in your

Loose-leaf notebook

The city is your slaughterhouse

Like a wife it accommodates your moods

Doesn't seem to mind you giving

Her a bad name

 You walk her streets a hungry vampire

Lapping up your own blood

On nights when blood transfusions

Are not enough

 

THE MAN YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE

beware, he'll talk you to death

while puffing on a cigarette

you can find him standing by the jukebox

begging for a quarter, waiting at the

pool table for an out-of-town mark

he's a would-be soldier

looking for a battle zone

a boner without a bone

he's a sex addict hiding under the bed

a towel-man cleaning up semen

from a whorehouse bedspread

he's a second rate Don Juan

reciting the 23rd psalm

he's the chef you never see

in a rich man's restaurant

he's the difference between

night and day

a preacher who sells options

on how to pray

he's the man behind the window

in the downtown pawnshop

he's a crooked weather-beaten cop

dining on mashed potatoes and pork chops

he's the ugly face you see on cable TV

trying to win over you and me

he's a funeral mortician bringing

you sadness and gloom

he's into yoga and a master of zen

he's the feed in a pigpen

he has his nose up the ass of anyone

who can do him a favor

he comes in twenty-four different flavors

he's the stain left behind in the church-pew

he's the masturbating monkey at the zoo

he's a shoe salesman, a fortune-teller

a dying man with a 106-degree fever

he's a jack-of-all trades

dressed in designer jeans and wearing shades

he's as old as mankind, a cheap treasure find

he's the man you never hope to see

when you look at yourself

in the mirror


AUDIENCE OF ONE


Old songs with half-forgotten lyrics
play inside my head
older still movies play on the
bark of my skin
Oklahoma, South Pacific, West Side Story
singing on the tip of my tongue
humming my way back to yesterday
left alone with ghostly echoes
that serenade the dead
I can almost feel the ignited passion
lost lovers draped on my bed
tasting the melody riding up and down
my spine
Memories of my parents old Victrola
vinyl records spinning
on a balanced groove
a love affair so fragile
it was like trying to thread a needle
in the teeth of a storm
Fading fading fading now
Like an old flame sipping
on a cup of coffee
at my favorite café
a smile on her face
fingers snapping foot tapping
to the music that made us as one
Evaporating in the face of dawn
like clouds taking foreign shapes
like the smoke rings my father
blew my way as a child
Frank Sinatra crooning
in the background
the way of music
sex love god
and death
playing to an audience of one

GOING BACK IN TIME

I was looking at my scrapbook

the other night

while listening to an old Dylan record

and there I was in my youth traveling

from California to Arizona and places

further west

heading in so many directions

it was like getting lost in the

trick-mirrors at the old fun house

and there were the women

then young girls

free flowing spirits who gave

their minds and bodies

at the slightest invitation

and nights too lying alone

in tangled sleep feeling

like a deer caught in barbed wire

or sitting hunched over cold and disheveled

at the local Greyhound station

fighting off the eyes of leering men

who preferred boys to women

Now sixty and counting

I realize I was there and back so fast

like a train running out of track

returning home carrying my life

in a Knapp-sack

the days the months the years

hung out to dry

like your mother's washing

on an old clothesline

POEM FOR GINSBERG

I saw the best minds of my generation

Destroyed by greed, not so starving

hysterical, naked under their fashion 

designer clothes

driving themselves through congested 

city streets

looking for non-existent parking spaces

aging hormone driven biological clock mothers

offering their purple veined breasts

to baby suckling zombies

in and out of public

who stock market driven

and laser vision perception

sipped Starbuck's coffee

under protective awnings

while watching beat cops shoo off
|
the homeless

who chatted aimlessly on their cell phones

making reservations at trendy restaurants

while whining about the quality of the wine

who fucked only by appointment

dutifully expecting a climax

in sixty seconds or less

who shopped at organic food markets looking

for eternal youth while seeking cash rebates

with no idea what to do with them

who saw the savior while vacationing

in Palm Springs

and God on Turner TV

who taught their children

how to use ATM machines

while devising cleaver tax evasion schemes

who gave up writing to save a tree

and claimed it as a tax deduction

who drove their cars in the bicycle lane

hoping for some excitement

who pierced their nipples cocks and tongues

wanting to be among the hip and young

who pledged their allegiance

to the almighty dollar

while writing protest letters

to their daily newspaper

Holy is the sock

Holy is Swiss cheese

Holy is the ATM machine

Holy is cable television

Holy is the condom

Holy is the U.N.

Holy Is pop culture

ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching

is the new Holy Order

the Holy of the unholy

The best minds of my generation

OLD JOE

                He sleeps in doorways

                Doesn't want to move

                Doesn't want to go

                To a shelter

                Not even when prodded

                With the heaviness of the

                Cop's nightstick

                Under threat of jail

                He curls up in a fetal position

                Closes his eyes

                Tries to shut out the

                Memories of Vietnam

                Nightmares whirl inside

                His head

                Like helicopter blades

                The alcohol the drugs

                The failed years gather

                Like locusts inside

                The cranial guitar of his mind

                Warrior troubadour

                Of Pharaoh origins

                Pale spokesman of lost tribes

               Masked as homeless transient

                Poet Prophet of beauty

                And all its imperfections

                Ravished by the streets

                Kissed by angels

                Left tired withered

                Like an unattended Kansas

                Grain field

SAN FRANCISCO STREETS

 

 

I HAVE WALKED THESE STREETS

LIKE A CRIME PHOTOGRAPEHR WALKS HIS BEAT

MY EYES TAKING IN HER EVERY MOVEMENT

MY BRAIN STORING REAL AND IMAGINED IMAGES
I
N 60 YEARS HER CHANGES HAVE NOT ELUDED ME

SHE IS OLDER NOW

MORE WRINKLED AND CRANKY
MUCH LIKE ME

BUT THE TWO OF US MANAGE TO GET ALONG

LIKE BUSINESS PARTNERS

LOOKING AFTER REACH OTHER’S INTEREST
MARKET STREET, ONCE A FASHIONABLE SOCIALITE

NOW A GAUDY WHORE

MISSION STREET, ONCE THE HOME OF THE IRISH

NOW GLOSSED OVWER

TOUGH LOOKING YOUTHS WITH DAGGER STARES

WHERE YOU GUARD YOUR WALLET

LIKE A EUNCH GUARDS THE HAREM DOOR
YOU HAVE TO LEARN TO GIVE AND TAKE

YOU HAVE TO LEARN TO ADJUST.

THE CITY IS LIKE A CUP OF COFFEE

STIR HER ENOUGH, AND THE FLAVOR FLOAST TO THE TOP
I HAVE WALKED THESE STREETS ALL MY LIFE

IN GOOD CONDTION AND BROKEN DOWN PHYSIQUE

KNOWING THERE IS NO CITY LIKE HER IN THE WORLD
SHE IS LIKE A PAIR OF EMPTY SHOES

SITTING UNDER THE BED

WITH NO FEET BIG ENOUGH TO FILL THEM
SHE IS LIKE A SQUIRREL RUNNING BETWEEN

THE LIVE WIRES OF A UTILITY POLE.

SHE IS LIKE THE LAST BULLET IN THE EXECUTIONER’S GUN
SHE IS LIKE A ROOM FULL OF POETS

CRAZED WITH THEIR OWN CONVERSATION

SHE IS LIKE BILLIE HOLIDAY DRENCHED

IN HER OWN SWEAT

SHE IS LIKE THE FACE OF GOD

ALL FOR GIVING IN HER INSATIBLE

 LUST FOR LIFE

 

POEM FOR JACK MICHELINE

 HEY JACK
THE POETRY FLASH FINALLY GAVE YOU
SOME SPACEEVEN IF YOU HAD TO DIE FOR IT
THEY SAID YOU WERE A GENIUS
FUNNY WHEN YOU WERE ALIVE
YOU NEVER HEARD THEM SAY THAT
THE POETRY FLASH, THE IOWA REVIEW
THE PARIS REVIEW, THE AMERICAN POETRY REVIEW
THIS IS NOT POETRY

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO WHITEMAN’S WILD CHILDREN?
THE HOLY GRAIL HAS GONE THE WAY

OF GRAND SLAMS, CON GAMES AND CHEAP SCAMS
THESE PEOPLE DANCE WITH THE DEAD

THEY HAVE NEVER DRANK A CUP OF THICK BLACK COFFEE

AT AN ALL-NIGHT TRUCK STOP DINER

OR WALKED THE STREETS WITH HOLES IN THEIR SHOES

OR SANG THE BLUES

THEY SHOPS AT MACY’S, BROWSE THE INTERNET
THEY DON’T MAKE LOVE, THEY FUCK
T
HEY DON’T EAT FOOD, THEY NIBBLE
THEY DON’T DRINK, THEY SIP
IT’S BECOMING NOTHING MORE THAN AN EGO TRIP
YOU WON'T FIND THEM IN THE MISSION
IN THE TENDERLOIN, OR SOUTH OF MARKET
OR STANDING IN LINE AT THE RACE TRACK
THEY DRINK BOTTLED WATER, EAT SUSHI
TRADE FAVORS LIKE BASEBALL CARDS.
THEY’RE LIVING PROOF OF MEDIOCRITY IN THE ARTS

THEY’RE THE GRAVE-DIGGERS IF THE BEATS
PLAYING TRICK OR TREAT
THEY NEVER MISS GETTING QUOTED IN AN OBITUARY
THEY’RE THE PAPARAZZI OF THE POETRY WORLD
ALWAYS LOOKING FOR A PHOTO OPPORTUNITY
THEY DON’T KNOW THE MEANING OF SHAME
HUNGRY FOR MONEY, HUNGRY FOR POWER
HUNGRY FOR FAME
THESE WOULD-BE MOUNTAIN MEN
WHO SET THEIR TRAPS WITH THE SILLS
OF A GRAVEDIGGER.

THEY ARE THE NEW BREED POETRY POLITICIAN
SEASONED ALLEY-CATS
HIDING IN SAND-BOXES
SHARPENING THEIR CLAWS
LOOKING FOR A BACK TO SCRATCH
STAKING OUT THEIR TERRITORy
LIKE A VAMPIRE IN NEED
OF A FRESH FIX OF BLOOD
THEIR FACES ARE PUFFY
THEIR HANDSHAKE WEAK
THEY HOVER IN THE SHADOWS
LIKE AN UNDERTAKER WAITING
TO DRESS THE DEAD
BEWARE MY FRINDS
|
DON’T DIE
THEY’LL BE SNIFFING
AT YOUR GRAVE.

THE WRONG SIDE OF TOWN

cop's flashlight intruding
on my thoughts
loud rapping on car window
demanding to know what I'm doing
out on the other side of town
at this ungodly hour

ordered out of car
frisked and taken downtown
for questioning
police suspicious
why would a white boy
be listening to a tape
of a black musician
in a respectible part
of town

POEM FOR CHARLIE MINGUS

Hot lava erupting in my head
wet sex screams riding my veins
white hot lightning bleeding my heart
like an undertaker dressing the dead
your rainvow notes cutting into me
like a surgeon's scalpel
leaves me feeling like a drunk Jesus
walking on water

FOR WILLIAM BURROUGHS

You played the game out
Like a Mafia Don
Late for an appointment
With the Godfather
Living life with the tenacity
Of a gunslinger
Looking for another notch
On his gun
Your cinema midnight cowboy eyes
Cut-up poster-boy hero images
Walking the mind's third eye
Like an aging dinosaur
Trudging his way through
Drug-induced mythologies
Grinding away the days 
The months  the years
Like a frenzied lap dancer
Seeking pleasure in forbidden
Pleasure zones

68

lines beginning to form
on the corner of my eyes
and I eat not from hunger
but out of force of habit
the fire in the loins is still there
and the hose still hard
but no one to man it

PANAMA ONE

In Panama City the
Day they killed the President
A group of us were issued rifles
And a loaded clip
And told to assist the
Panama National Guard
In whatever way we could
Like rousting civilians
Who might be possible assassins

We split off from the
Rest of them  six of us
Four half-drunk
And one stoned on grass
And dumb ass me wanting
To be anywhere but there
When we came across this woman
Working in the fields

And what started off as questioning
Turned out to be a strip-search
Eager hands violating
Every part of her body
And when I protested
I was told to shut up
Or get with it

They laughed that
They were only looking
For concealed weapons
Wrestling her to the ground
As I walked away in shame
Not wanting to be part of what
I had no chance of stopping

PANAMA SIX

She lay there on the bed
Naked  legs spread open
Labia lobster red
Her eyes those of a prisoner
Serving a life sentence
We never said a word
It was like a mechanic working
On a used car
Trying to put life back into it
And failing to get a response
Her eyes two headlights
Burned into the ceiling
As if she were taking inventory
Of all those there before me
A never ending long line
Of raw sausages moving down
An assembly line
In a butcher factory

HAIKU

a microphone inside my head
static playing mad tunes on my tongue
a lonely grasshopper without wings

HAIKU 11

another day spent home alone
bag lady talks to cracks in the street
pope takes his last breath

HAIKU 111

Kaufman poems ratlle inside head
Hunter Thompson gunshot wound bleeds the dawn
Umpire in black sweeps off home plate

TO BE A POET IN AMERICA

To be a poet in America
is to be faceless
like the Indian on an old Buffalo
head nickel
To be a poet  a prophet
a shaman is boxcar Willie without
his guitar
To be a poet in America
is to be invisible

A BIT OF ZEN

monks in

            meditation

have no need for

            explanation.

THE PERFECT COUPLE

He was a pica
She was elite
He was after a homerun
She liked to stop at third base
He liked lobster
She liked cracked crab
He played doubles
She played singles
He took showers
She took baths
He ate Chinese
She ate Italian
He saw sex as dessert
She saw it as an appetizer

WORDS THAT BLEED

She was the knife in the
Hands of Jack the Ripper
In a heavy fog in a back alley
In old London town  slicing
Dicing her way through the
Canvas of my heart

She was the pearl-handled revolver
In the hands of Dillinger
That begged to be fired
But never had the chance the
Night he was gunned down
In  a hail of bullets

She was a keg of gunpowder
Waiting to be ignited
Betrayed by a wet fuse the
Night I woke naked and vulnerable
Feeling like a voyuer walking
In on two strangers making love
My thoughts a mosaic tattoo
On public display
These wounded words that drip blood
Lying still as a beached shipwreck
In the bone yard of a stranger's dreams