My newest available on Amazon, Lulu, and Barnes and Noble Online
All you wicked men what is wrong with you? There is no black Justice seen on the Sistine Chapel. Only the stupidities that can make a stuff bird laugh- the small axe ready to cut the big tree down. https://youtu.be/b0Tk-FoiX_0 Based loosely on theSteve McQueen anthology of films. The first in the series…
In the early morning rise, my mother and I take a ride to the hospital where I was born and she has her dialysis treatments. Her feet, wrinkled and bruised, exhausted are raised on a leather pedestal. They remind me of Grandma’s heavy black nylons that pooled around her ankles as she prayed…
The steel bar that holds the torso up gives it a spine and makes it art and not some headless, armless, genital-less mutilation pushed from a machine going faster than the white signs allowed. I see it only on my iPhone, backlit with its perfect abs and cum-gutters not unlike the headless fuckers penetrating endless…
I plea for my mother’s spirit to wait for me before the ascension because I want to know more beyond her sun, moon and stars; for her to show me the other colors hidden inside her; shades my crafted words can only reflect in broken shards. She draws me a symbol for a word…
On the 11th month, the 11th day, at the 11th hour, Meghan wore her poppy on the right side at 11 O’clock, just like her father, John McCain taught her. Holding her newborn girl Liberty close to her— and taking care not to disturb the many small flags proudly fluttering— she placed another poppy exactly…
I. 1. The poem parses time into syllables and the syllables reach out to hold you in the embrace of your grandmother’s words, the light touch of motherly praise, the squirm of a daughter’s protestations, the first gurgling phonemes of the womb advancing to meaning, dissolving to memory. 2. The grandfather clock travels in grandfather…
The blue shoe on the side of the road had me wondering who it belonged to. Yes, shoes are made for journeying, poised for leaping not yet taken. They shine with this potential right off the factory line. Yet, this orphan once so stiff when young, once a tender, warming friend…
The cairns are mothered by murders of crows— four stones as black as raven eggs, others sky blue with specks of black, pointing this way to heaven, pointing this way to hell, or is it to Tecumseh’s grave, the bones of all buffaloes? But then crows are great tricksters, erecting…
Rising from the watery mist the grey sea church blesses the waves and prays to the sky, lonely, unadorned, a silver carven wing, folded in limbo, as its sea bells peel out the redemption of sand and stone. Its three pillars drawn from sea’s breath are stained aquamarine, and on its grey stone altar,…
