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Because

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Unpublished

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Autobiography

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The story of my life/ would put insomniacs to sleep.

Mule

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Sometimes cats had to die or dogs

Snatch X

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...the astonishing discovery...

The Watermelon King

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In the garden where the watermelons lie...

Bad Back

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Sharpie marked, Free Still Works

Departure. Arrival. Return.

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Put down your bazooka, Marianne.

Landing

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She’s witnessed her mother’s terror on the day of the hurricane, and she demanded for the first time in her life that her mother do something her mother did not want to do.

The Road to Ensenada

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One of the men leaned over and spit long and dark next to where the dog lay curled. He said something about the senora, and the other men laughed.

Marine Forecast

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A favorite place doesn't always offer comfort.

Plans and The World

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You are terrified. You light/ the autopilot light and trust// the small machineries of self/ to land things safely,

The Man Whose Wife Lived in His Neck

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This is the story of the man whose wife lived in his neck. Every morning, he would turn to her and say, "Hello, Sweetheart. How was your night?" and she would answer, Brilliant! What else?

Beverly

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48 words

You, Cliché

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You might as well be the man on the moon. Once touching your face was quotidian. When I tallied each day's pleasures, you, in this room or that, counted too much for me, I think. I stopped record keeping. I'm …

Galactic Butterflies

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will we become artifacts?

White Lies

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My area of study was very specific: maggots, the larvae of Diptera brachyceran. (I enunciated clearly, and by giving the maggot a Latin name, I elevated its status from repugnant to scholarly.)

Anatomy of a Vagina

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Sometimes a flower is just a flower.

Fragment

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see the man

Nietzsche

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12 lines

A Debt No Honest Man Can Pay

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

Other Thoughts from the Darkling Plain

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the world inside shrinking, the world outside shrinking

Wednesday late, Friday early

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I wrote this during a poetry workshop at the Atlantic Center for the Arts with Carolyn Forché. January, 2015. So much more has happened since that stunning week.

Nineteenth Century Noise

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The virtuoso tortures a violin/ in homage to Paganini.

Dinner at the Whorehouse with Geraldo Rivera

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wear that short skirt and those high-heeled boots

Where I Live Now

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The young man is back again, solo,

Notel Nobel

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That was before Cohen died. Castro died. Castro Died should be a title by Samuel Beckett. Once I nearly went out to buy a bass clarinet just for the purpose of playing along with Leonard Cohen.

Syllables of the Dead

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Nothing has changed// except the toys and fashion.

Restaurant Rondo

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Before she flushes the toilet the world is spinning.

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.