I held the steam and scrubbed it. How do you do that? asked Willy. How do you scrub steam? It is so, you know, diaphanous. I said to Willy, because Willy was a good man and listened with both ears, we adapt to the heart's convulsions. I send my grammar to a…

Since then I have come to feel his absence and feel that it might be time to try and write about this again. I used to spend a great deal of time managing things on facebook for a very large group with over 10,000 members. While some might not understand

In a space capsule he is an astronaut. In his spacesuit he is dressed like chewing gum.

pain and anger

It’s too early in the morning to play the glockenspiel. I’ll just sit here and knit this tiger.

Voluntary exiles spread fears and feces, diseases and monstrosities, all the suffering and suffocation, ruthlessness and rootlessness of the world, just like a horsefly that cheekily spreads its filthy eggs in the most paradisiacal corners of the earth. Hence the…

Whenever I get the urge to write a poem I try to talk myself out of it.

Barbarians and savages wore feathers/ or frightful face paint or skin tones// one could recognize and aim for/ with weapons one could feel

I saw a big dog By the side of the road I saw a small deer By the side of the road A little maroon water in a glass As I was driving home Under darkness With the wind that was under a rose New blood will fill the earth And we must lo

The white moon is dangling by a thread tonight. I close my eyes and listen to it undress. Your halo fell around your ankles and you became see-through, but there’s a vast gulf between being pretty, and pretty dangerous. Still, I’ve s

(and the teacher’s voice, which we realize has just faded in at a drone:)

Outside cool fresh morning tiny fingers

Everybody wake up and hold to those dreams you had of greatness and prosperity. Bring forth the hopes you had as a child of progressing to that ultimate goal of self-sufficiency. You are prepared for what lies ahead, the future belongs to us. Our finest…

Doreen takes Butchie’s hand, steadies it in the can opener, counts “One-two-three”–and slams the chrome handle down.

we feel entitled to, so unwanted, afraid for, from the billions of stomping oafs, leaping onto our hearts like squishing jelly sandwiches for fun, bullies in power out there? To be brilliant onits tiny behalf? I forget, exactly whyare you still here anyway? Don't…