Wednesday, April 01, 2020

National Poetry Month 30/30

So I’ve decided to do a 30/30 Haiku/Senryu for NaPoMo again. Of course the goal is to get to 30 but I usually get at least 60+ . Here we go!

I wash my hands before
biting my nails

Breaking the midday silence-
Cherry blossoms

The corner boys
wear different masks

Quarantine Day Nine-
My last barbershop memory

Moving my mask
to take a puff

Day moon-
That website subscription
you forgot to cancel

The cat licks each paw
for 20 seconds

St. Patrick’s Day-
The green bits in a pool
of vomit

Friday, February 21, 2020

Long time no see

On the Boardwalk
a piece of taffy pulls
two kids together

I know it’s been forever since I posted here. Part of that is because I mostly used to post poetry and stuff about music. Prince left us and I’ve been fucked up ever since. Also, I got some poems published in some fancy journals which is good, but it turns out that they consider poems posted to a personal blog as “published” and generally will only take unpublished work. So I had to make a choice and I decided not to post any new poems since it takes me so long to generate new material. But now I’m back, at least for a while . . . The video above is from a Kazakh singer named Dimash Kudaibergen who is maybe the most amazing vocal artist I’ve ever seen. Discovering his music has gotten me back on track in that area. Also, here is an article/interview of me written by a local writer Dave Simpson with photos by Alex Philippe Cohen that actually took about five years from start to finish. You gotta admire that type of tenacity from a writer.

Friday, December 01, 2017

No Ordinary Love

“Didn’t I tell you what I believe . . .”
Helen Folasade Adu

How many moon cycles has our earth spun
since I leaped the ravine of No Return
to enter you as a sommelier
would a wine cellar,
since the bright crescents
of my fingernails
lit up the black sky of your back,
or these guitar strings bent
under cinnamon fingers
rhumba enough to evict
tenets of any religion?
Tonight, say a loose moonbeam
butterflies into the room
behind my ruby stung eyes,
mean a quill of light tries to inscribe
how nearly calligraphic kisses
could spell or dispel
lunar letters of despair.
Learnèd astrologer
under which bright constellation
might dreams cease
to summon those Calypso lips
glossed to lapse all logic,
if logic could even survive
your tresses
curling darker
than the drums
of what I prayed 
you could save me from.
Should I recite twin legends
of your razor swung legs,
but paint your skirt teal
as Sade's pleated lyrics
woven from shiver thin sheets?
Say doubt’s darkened cave of mouth
hid sparks of wildfire
to fell a forest entire,
then if all our nights
were spent like coins
glazed in the glare
of prayer’s fountain,
who cares?
Some wonder if we’re freed
or fried by the lightning inside
a theorem of thighs
that ignite five types of feral,
this time as the thin edge
of teeth on a low hung ear lobe’s
suspect rim,
that time as an ankle’s
brassy passion for police bracelets.
Let’s try to pretend
dawn’s first daughter,
danger’s onyx angel,
never snatched our head back,
hummed “Forever” into an ear,
or skipped our river rock quick
to spawn the sufi songs
of dragonflies that now seize
our pawns en passant.
Yet who else craved
an Old Crow moan
to throb their own throat,
or learned how vows
feel mouthed tho they sizzle unsung
in the cast iron marriage
of sly catfish & cool cornmeal,
between a first flame of bud
& that last good buy?
If his halo dipped
to kiss the curves
of Magdalene’s ear,
could even Jesus
have denied her Gospel
of touch?
how many Luna moths
need flit into old flames
while we burn coal hot
trying to unlock
a mystery like magnetism
with keys found under
the tea rose carpet

of your tongue?

Sunday, April 30, 2017


As if god stuttered the seventh letter or
in the queendom of quickened candles I smell
the pretty want preserved in her blackberry smile you
never can tell if the haze of love is grill smoke or fog burning off
I hold the scented feet of her chrysanthemum sonnets
in my mouth like penny candy until they melt
into a pseudonym for epidermic skirmish that feeds
the knocking of legs like needles knitting French novels
made like marmalade into movies starring Hepburn staring
out of desire holy as a moth-eaten hat but never
kissing like two planes crashing into a sparkling
tiara of her morphined memories unless somehow
they curl like calla lilies in the humidity pouring
as an alto aria from old pitchers of illegal aliens
like my naked hope swimming to the Atlantic shore
to avoid Customs of kissing on both cheeks she
shorts the electrical systems of my fingers
until the gaps fuse into black eyed susans and
maybe one night I lick a truth simple as egg salad
from her lips or caress her almond eyes they open like a 7-11
and serve every synapse loaded as a doe-eyed dog
with a carbonated big gulp which goes flat as Bobby McGee’s
indigo EKG after eight hours I hear myself singing
the blues to her Savoy genes and turn into the spiral
arms of a Tropical Depression that wouldn't hug a homeless
vet in 1972 falling like a barometer collapsed on itself or
slant lines of liquid silver precipitate from her stormy eye
still dream under the gaps in park benches because
my OCD makes me count every antecedent crawling
the luminous length of the concrete floor of this longing.

Saturday, April 01, 2017

NaPoMo 30/30 Haiku and Senryu

Long dawn shadows
Booty stretch
marks morning Tai Chi

subway rumble the subtext of her half-smile

April darkness pocketing my phone to follow tweets

Because a Tomahawk is not a bird we pray

Winter leaves a calendar's last days curl around us

At the top of our stares Stars

Open bedroom door Oscar Peterson's fingers on 88 keys

Low winter sun The glare from a truck with a Rebel Flag

October breeze the puddle unruffled by a V of geese

subway rumble the subtext of her half-smile

Saturday, February 11, 2017

Something old, Something new, something borrowed, something blue

(For Miss Prissy)

When you toss the dark
mystery of your hair,
why are the almonds of your eyes
suddenly so sienna?
How do your lips
always seem to glisten,
ripe as a rain
kissed apple?
My hands may have trekked
from Australia to Zaire,
(although not yet Cabo Verde.)
Yet the topography
between the soft shore
of your forehead
and the smooth beach of your feet
leaves them befuzzled,
grasping at perfumed air.
They may have kayaked currents
on the Silver River,
rambled up the mythic rocks
of Mt. Rainier,
or even delved the subtext
of the Mediterranean Sea,
but encountering you
they lack any compass,
nautical chart or North Star.
Let me not notice
how the purple
of your pout
may harbor more treasure
than any ocean’s sunken chests
or these hands
might never cease
their hunger
to wander down
the coiled conundrum of your spine
and up the twin exclamation points
of your thighs,
eternally seeking to solve
each brown skinned riddle
the country of your body contains.

After Pablo Neruda