Category / Current


(Paris, Hair, 1971)     Once through an ancient stage door, past a sign “L’audition”, I’m ushered by hip Mercury, cocked   torch lighting his winged brow. My number’s the one he hands me, though I don’t know how: to


I don’t know what made me think that life is always less painful than death as I’ve seen it be, for the dying.   Sometimes they seem so quiet surrendered to us, clothes cut off, placid. Your flooded face, waterlogged

Could Someone Please Check on …

When the young man thought about the history of poetry it seemed to him he had walked into a crowded room in which everyone was speaking at once. There was, he decided, no order to it. And this troubled him

Things forgotten

“ …stay forever young and beautiful”                                    Robert Walser   once in another city, streetlights haloed with rainwater, the asphalt,   onxy for a moment or two, you, any you, forgotten, perfected;   still, it’s the proposition that matters more

Two Poems

To a High Aircraft                  (after William Cullen Bryant)     While now by slow degrees the heat and light of a long summer day decline, the west become a burning gallery out of the evening news,  

The Good World

but when I painted the deer I didn’t want to scare her so I started with the leaves her slow tongue curled around then the nearby apples come loose on their brittling stems for her alone I painted even the

Stone Cross

— after Vasyl Stefanyk (1871-1936) Ukrainian prose writer, political activist   1. Remember your village of always uphill, a water-warped leather neck-strap, the cramped wagon with an oak shaft. Remember dirt, hunks of manure flecked with feather and bone, dust

The Podium

He is bilious, potty-mouthed, at once puffy and rachitic. He sways, eyes red and rheumy as September strawberries. Yet he is the Leader. We fear and adore him. When we were children, moping on the stoop, we shoved him a

Two Poems

Mother of Invention   Who first fashioned fishnet stockings, wearable windows for the high-rise of the female leg, these panes that divide thighs into endless peepshows, elasticated graphs, spanning ankles, knees, and calves, that chart the unknown like sextants, in

Pet of the Week

Oh, Salsa, I too am “weary of men and strangers.” We’re sisters of the hind and heart on this. Must men always be . . . men? Voices as sure as trees, mitts shall we say not soft to sensitive

After victory — the era …

*** После победы – эпоха казней послевоенных. Скоротечные заседания и решения трибуналов. Необходимо уменьшить поголовье военнопленных. Не кормить же в тюрьме побежденных вражеских генералов!   Тем более, что у каждого руки в крови по локоть. И сохранились приказы, что они

The Harrow Plow

Each spring it sank a little further down beneath the apple tree where we would stand and pitch those sour globes to feel them burst against a bat we could barely swing. Convinced it was a spacecraft run aground no

Closed Eye Vision of Independe…

                                           —after Stan Brackhage   Dazzled drunks are bent over with laughter, apparitional as truth on some little path, everything stands for everything, night is short. Life and its explosive brother death, what are we supposed to do is

Some Answers

No, I will not change. I don’t think it’s news. Neither will you. No, I haven’t eaten in years, never loved your quetzal- feathered pork chops, your shoulder- blade soup. Like Job said, be- hold, I am vile. Like we


I long to move closer To the outskirts Of Poetryville. I’ve even Invited the mayor And his halfling wife For peanut butter And crackers. But still, out here— The fishing Is swell. And the mountaineer’s Cross-eyed Little boys Have agreed