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Ghost Questions

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What if I never feel like a real artist? What does it even mean to be a "real" artist? What if nobody ever cares about what I make?


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our changeless moons slice through eaten skies/faces turn from sun to cloud to eclipse/apogees and perigees in turn/pulling the tides of our blood all through us,/friend, villain, witness, calendric clock:

Rwanda Suite: Basketball

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You make a wedding gift personal, see, otherwise you go on the register. I was new to weddings, so I'd looked it up, and even NPR said don't go on the register.

Bookstore Reading, Telegraph Ave, Berkeley

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There’s someone in the audience who is immolating himself Cutting his own leg over and over with a pen knife And groaning: “Oh God, oh God” And all I can think from up at the podium is This guy must absolutely hate these poems I am reading

Charlie Rose Interview With Jeff Spicoli, October 3, 2001

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Summer, finito

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one season slips into another

The Conversation

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It was always your body that told so much -- lips working some secret out


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I heard that Hollywood is remaking “Thelma and Louise” with Christina Ricci and that dark haired girl who worked on a show that plays on the television. I heard it either from the internet or from a dream. I thought about looking it up, but I don't…

Death's Honesty (5)

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“Man...I...I loved them!”

The hills above St Florent

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Eighty years since we last leaned to the Right, we have already dug trenches in our head, built walls between skins and gods.

Any poem is possible

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I wrangle word juice from the Oxford American, sighing at photographs of blues musicians with solemn lakes for eyes.

Gravity as Destiny

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Falling// is something that comes quite naturally/ to puffed up things. Like the soufflé


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on cd I make john hiatt does not smash perfectly good guitar


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First Kiss

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The feel of the lifeguard's tongue surprised me. It was like wet leather, not smooth, and it had an unexpected stiffness to it. When Susan and I practiced we kept our tongues to ourselves. I wasn't sure if this was because to French…

Meditation on a Pomegranate

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Like a blank rumor of/ice and smoke you worked on me


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bassackward/in the surreal/bathroom mirror

A Debt No Honest Man Can Pay

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I'm sitting here listening to Nebraska and it's / breaking my heart

3 Poems Of Broken Hands And Lonely Drones

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another lonely drone holding still

Frozen Shells

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I had some words, but the truth is they don't mean a thing because whatever it is I was trying to say to you always crumbles to the ground in front of you. I had some words, but the bullying wind was stronger than me and ripped them…

The Man With the Hairy Back

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It’s strange, what will become of me What my life will be like Since the animal in me Is beginning to show on my back Oh no, no, no Women will never put up with this I was afraid this would happen They’ll think I’m only half a man I’


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my family's Scottish heritage

The Bounce

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I. Two cancer scares since June, one came up nothing the other nothing much. (My breasts are dense: I know all about moles— little bastards don't have to get sun to go nuts.) My manuscript travels ether to…

He Was So Beautiful

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secrets are beautiful
/ between four lips

Death's Honesty (4)

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“I was so fucking stoned, man”

Dumb Ass

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I want to tell you how the odor of the flowers/felt her funeral day

Phenomenology- Short Stack

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The fly comes in against my will/ and hers. She would prefer/ the wider world with its piles of shit

RAND vs. Rand

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"It is, of course, spelled 'Ayn,' not 'Ann' Rand." ¶ "Glad you like the U.S. more than Mother Russia."

The Work of Constant Rising

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The poet said, ‘I feel the fell of dark, not day.” but day it always is. Bright! Bright! the city claims its blue salutes; its stopping in mid-sentence at a name where fingers roam a stone.