Second Post

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Here’s a poem that was published in Nightsun (Issue #14, Fall 1994).

 

The Parallel Universe of Grief

In Belize a fat whore whispered to me,
I think about what music does.
Here I place one foot down and then the next,
thinking, she won’t be there,
whatever direction I take.
The woman whose child was killed by dogs
carries a whistle at all times.
Screeee she warns a bus back
and screeee she calls to the drugstore man
who eases her away with lotions.
She pierces the flesh on her husband’s arms,
displays him like a butterfly in a glass case.
Waving to passersby she points:
Jesus on the wall, baby in a box. Screeee
she calls to the public
to come see her patriarch monarch.
I place my feet together, then imagine them gone.
Transparency is my strategy now,
against I know how you feel.
Invisible, I am the wind carrying salt to your world.

 

 

 

 

First Post

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Recently I wanted to share a published poem of mine with a new acquaintance, Jerry, so I photocopied it and handed it to him. He suggested that I start a blog and put my old poems on it, as few or none of them are accessible online. I dislike the word “blog” and have long resisted starting one, but I do like sharing my poems and photos and such, so I’ve decided to thank Jerry and give it a try. Here’s a poem that was published in Phoebe: A Journal of Literary Arts (Vol. 24, No. 2) in 1995. It was a finalist for the Grege Grummer Award in Poetry.

 

Little Black Sambo Turned to Peanut Butter for Your Sins

Bipedal and in a hurry.

Not much changes.

Heyheylistenlisten

listen I gotta tell you

anythingcanhappen

you know it’s so all it takes
is critical mass what other kind is there

these days amIright so you can

bet it’s true when I say I’ve seen

ducks make pigs of themselves

and that’s not all waitwait don’t go

listen to this the alphabet song

you know ABCDEFG it’s the same goddamn melody

as twinkle twinkle little star and and

youwon’tbelievethis baa baa black sheep waitwait

there’s more you just havetohearthis

But what I

really can’t forgive

is heroes who die
leaving me stained with life

to administer last compliments.

Stay here, the rest of you.

Rest in the peace of a good argument finished.

Tie the ends of your braids with the strings from teabags,

get up and dance.