It is imperfect,/ eroded by the optics// of light, space/ and orbital mechanics.

I no longer go for walks without my bamboo stick. Tightly held in my hand, thin and light, it beats the invisible particles which try to land on me and bite. My face is hidden as in shame under a rough gag, my hands are getting rusty, missing the touch of other hands. My…

Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.

He gathers our abusive fathers, our esophageal tears, our peanut fetuses.

They wait for me every morningthese two furry four legged catswhen they hear my car,their eyes open wide and they nuzzle each otherin anticipationof the food I bring them

I am eternal/ as long as the power holds

...he had that same grin, better than a racy French picture.

He didn't hide it. He told her he was a mortician when he called. He had responded to her ad in the Lonely Hearts section of the newspaper.

Of only there were more like you, I wouldn't be changing careers. And my drawings would still be in magazines, instead of on strange people's rears.

The violin hung on the wall after that, a witness.

Once a psychologist told me a story

Someone's ass should be kicked.

in which a man who is bored with years of retirement poses a threat to himself and others

I’ve forgiven my mother; she didn’t know what she was doing. She heard voices, had visions. She imagined herself to be a prophet named Helen when her real name was Marge. When she learned she was pregnant with me she scored some Thalidomide from my gr

for Bill YarrowPoetry is a way of breathingagainst the enemy's chest withoutlosing consciousness again. Itis a ghost dance. Poetry is tobe determined by the plight of bees.Poetry is a waterfall ona mailing list. I've never tasteda finer whiskey than poetry.Poetry is half…