Saturday, June 18, 2022

Tribeca's Kitchen

Stop animation photos capture
a diner table overhead.
Two coffee cups empty and fill
and empty and appear here
and there around disappearing
chocolate chip pancakes
and a two-egg breakfast, until
the cups stand empty alone together.

Tuesday, May 31, 2022


I center an infinitesimal
void. My once grounding desires now arc
at sight's end (desiring survival,
the last among them)—their lights are so far
they bend, then dim. And darkness takes my eyes.
I’m patience’s perfect work: wanting nothing.
Well, one thing: Let her know, Leslie, my wife,
this one thing: only her face in my mind
prevented my disappearing countless
times, and even now inflicts me into now, 
pains me into the present, where darkness
an over wintered oak buds the dawn.

Thursday, April 28, 2022

Between Depression and Mania

Light the daffodils that strike me teary,

Spring. Get on with it. I resent your joy.

I won’t cupboard my winter clothes. Each spring

dress that dances down the sidewalk destroys


a mind with delight. Every song is wrong.

These fragrant blossoms and reappearing 

birds aren’t evidence of the Earth’s rebirth

but worse: they are Earth’s forever birthing.


What can you hold when you’re always giving?

You Icarus me each first equinox.

Get on with it. I can’t prevent your joy,

your light. Your endless day is endless night.

Saturday, April 16, 2022


I glimpse my frayed tether in a friend’s face—
I’m losing time, but the clock's hands are not 
yet amputated. I attempt escape
into everyday faces and side-street 
bars, get lonely cornered and whiskey grinned.
I’m getting thin. Months collapse disordered.
My celestial sunrise writing, winged
and away, lifts me out of endless days.
I’m untethered and confound family.
“A prophet is not without honor, save 
in his own country, and in his own house.”
Outside of time, how can one not be brave?

Friday, March 18, 2022


Crucifying on Tarot's Celtic cross,
the Devil tells me, "Scorpio, you've stung
your head with winged visions from the eyelids
of the dead." A kaleidoscope flutters

terror through me: a blood sun sets on this
evil Calvary, where no mourners wail,
and stock-still leaves on dormant trees hiss,
"Eli, Eli lama sabachthani."

The earth is sound. No veil is torn. The saints
sleep soundly; their graves unborn. I wake
to waking, and wish my waking done. Sleep
escapes me, and I wish my visions done.

Tuesday, March 1, 2022

Michael Weeks

We were sixteen when you died.
When I was seventeen, Stacey Brice 
handed me a paper doll skeleton
that you had cut and buried within 
your Geometry book. Now I’m forty one,
and those paper bones are in this poem, 
atop my shelf, and older than you ever were.

Wednesday, September 1, 2021


The gray sky hides the sun. 
I see others’ backs walking toward the train. 
Quiet footsteps on wet cement. 
A garbage truck’s brakes hiss behind me. 

Tuesday, August 24, 2021

Tuesday, July 27, 2021

Practicing Heartbreak

Years teach one to mend 
one’s chest after each 
deep unrest. Everyone
learns the best seat 

is the corner seat. 
With your back to the wall 
you can stand tall 
after the party ceases. 

I don’t know. My heart 
has creases from excessive 
scar healing. I’m far 
from having a proper perspective. 

A broken bone is stronger 
after becoming unbroken. 
A broken heart is bolder 
if one can be forgiven. 

Friday, June 18, 2021

Thursday, June 10, 2021

Aged 50

In ten years I 
hope to clearly 
write poems 
without punctuation
without wasted words

with nothing but heart