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Poems

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  • Hail to Thee,

    I write, my wrist nodding

  • I Dreamed of Obama on the Night of His First Election

    He stirred the coals of my dwindling campfire. We were alone. Blue tendrils of smoke punctuated the Mesozoic haze

  • The Killing

    While Abraham binds his son’s hands,

  • Anti-Fundamentalist

    I remember that

  • Pathetic Fallacy

    Jog through this suburb at a blue hour

  • Myth

    The blind hobo who returned

  • Wooden Boards

    My father carefully rolls his pant leg up, places his leg between two wide boards. He tells my mother to jump hard on

  • Stairway

    In those days, so many stairways were said to lead to happiness, mainly of a sexual kind—and as I climbed those

  • Ode to the Google Maps Man

    Gold-suited spaceman, terranaut,

  • Why I Haven’t “Outgrown Surrealism,” No Matter What That Moron Reviewer Wrote

    I still love the sound of breaking,

  • Aspect

    The spirit’s simulacra have obtained

  • George Orwell Sucks

    How can a word evocative of so much pleasure,. both adult and infantile, find itself used – by almost everybody – in