April 8th— Poem #8

An Ottava Rima for the Iron Lady Upon Her Death

For eternity now, the girl with mouse ears playing beach blanket bingo

will be connected to the woman behind the purse, who would not be turned

her life immortalized on celluloid by one whose baby was eaten by a dingo

before her descent into a mind filled with darkness,  a girl, she quickly learned

nothing’s free and Thatcher, Thatcher the milk snatcher became their lingo

the miners of Yorkshire starved in defiance, for a compromise they yearned

don’t cry for me Argentina, and England took heed, took to the streets

ding dong the fucking witch is dead, some champagne toasts, others tweet.

April 7th— Poem #7

A man walks into a bar

he does not tell a joke

the bartender does not ask

why the long face?

orders a double whiskey, neat

low-shelf with a tallboy back

he’s getting fucked up and wants to do it fast

he does not want the slow dance of conversation

of social graces and proper etiquette

it’s three o’clock on a Monday

the sun is shining

his ex is a fuck

and yesterday was Easter

sure as shit it seems to him

no one died for his sins and if

the skinny hippy did

it was a goddamned waste of life, of time

no saving him

The bartender wears a blue plaid shirt

sets off his eyes and beard, his sad smile

it’s too hot for a day like today

the bartender understands

it’s three thirty on a Monday

beautiful for this rain-soaked city

he wipes down the bar, pours another double

pops another tab

it’s easier when they want to chat

he turns the music up when Morrissey comes round

In our lifetime those who kill,

the newsworld hands them stardom

and these are the ways

on which I was raised …

it was one of those afternoons

The man thinks of Jesus

the Easter Bunny, colored egg hunts

biting off chocolate ears

it’s four o’clock on a Monday

he settles his bill

the sun is bright and for a moment, blinding

no fucking way Jesus could save him

he stumbles a little

reaching for the handle of his big, black truck

Now where the hell does he live again?


April 6th- Poem #6

 O’hara at Late Night Happy Hour 


God Frank 

I fucking miss you 

invader of dreams 

waking and sleeping 

your ghost a stalker 

I cannot shake you 

I want to wake up in your arms 

make you eggs 

pour bourbon in your orange 

load your Remington with paper 

I prefer to load the weapons myself 

Like Mrs. Dalloway 

the weapons that slay me 

you nasally, skinny genius  

charm me, ultimate charmer 

though you prefer to be the snake 

every indicator in your poems  

I do this, you do that 

leave me, leave me be 

this creature of mediocrity 

April 5th- Poem #5

A Sort of Cinquain for Kurt Cobain on the Anniversary of His Death


Do you

remember where

when you heard Kurt Cobain

shot dead—here we are now, enter-

tain us

April 4th— Poem #4

And they will take his perfect green body

and paint it red

All day I think of Sexton’s poem

anticipating Lobster Fest for Jimmy’s birthday

drive 45 minutes from city’s center

a football-sized parking lot

we search for Susi

new blonde hair a speck

she waves and waves, we wait

the chardonnay not too buttery

one might be relieved, what with all the ramekins

swimming in butter already

we speak of movies, the death of Ebert

of work and kids, the weather

the calories of cheesey biscuits

the ungodly amount of food

and how big the fucking parking lot is

joke of going from chain to chain to chain

of gorging and puking

of getting older and how we no longer

slip tabs of ecstasy and dance the weekends away

although coke sounded fun for a second last summer

a trip to Atlantic City

joke of making a sexcapade book Timmy’s Tricks

we ogle the waiter and his ironic mustache

all except Susi who prefers older men, their experience

over Travis’s toned, taut ass

we speculate how many hostesses he’s boned

amused at the sidelong glances he gets as he sings

Happy Birthday just a little too enthusiastically

this is a special occasion

once every few years, if ever again

this Lobster Fest

where no one acknowledges

what color these crustaceans should really be 

April 3rd— Poem #3

Under water is where he belongs

you’d have thought his mother performed a water birth

or fucked Triton on that beach

not a surfer twice her age

hanging on to thinning blonde dreads

whale tattoo between shoulder blades forever motionless

an exhibit at the Natural History Museum

By ten he’d been called faggot so many times

he believed it was his christian name

night time he tied his ankles together with stolen pantyhose

willing them to fuse

he’d never understand how Ariel chose land

cut her magnificence in half

not for sexual prowess, female cunning

but for legs

With a fishtail the problem of his sex

would be solved

in the gyms showers

in bed when he furiously jerked off

to fantasies of male swimmers in tiny speedos

Long after his Care Bears remained lifeless

long after Santa,the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy

he still willed for the meshing of his flesh

he began sewing— garbage bags, wet suits

until perfecting the slick look of scales 

shimmering colors of blue, green, sliver

gold and orange too

Later, his lover drew the line at tails in bed

made bad jokes of sleeping with cold fish

acquiesced at the beauty of seeing him

cutting dancer-like along the horizon

at sunset lookers-on swear they’d seen

the biggest goldfish known to man

He belongs under water

for four whole minutes he is not faggot

in this Arcadia

he is son of Triton

and he is king

April 2nd— Poem #2

She’s selling papers now

just another story on the news

morning headlines printed red

what if you did not know

you did not know

not know


You let the strangers go,

but you want details

don’t you?

Who would I be, in this story?

Like Sylvia’s daughter

accusing us of being

the peanut eaters, entertained

when it is out of love and okay

perhaps, a morbid curiosity

I can say

seventy feet is a long way to travel

by air

if you don’t have wings

April 1st- Poem #1

Slowly, silently, now the moon

I want to bath in a crater

kiss silver tongued boys

with our silver-tinged hair

silver lust mistaken for love

I will take my plume

tattoo poetry on their bodies

they will radiate

Oh, Rachmaninoff play your concerto in D minor

for me, this day of your birth

Everyone will have hummingbird fingers

as if the keys are weightless

This place where fools can be king for a day

oh jester try to make me believe

in ridiculous things

like K is not lying in a coma

her newborn either

smashed in a flight they could not handle

We will be just the right age

with just the right amount of hair

in just the right places

our beauty beatific

We will wax, we will wane

we are nature’s night-light

we are the pull, pull, pull of the oceans

unwilling to let go …

March 23rd journal entry

You trip on garden gates

knees scraped and slacks torn

bleeding, desperate 

you chase ghosts down rainy streets

to apartments vacant and beautiful

the escape of sleep and dreams

a prayer dripping from your lips

March 19th journal entry

I shaved today, neck burned like hell perusual

all to impress a barista at the coffee shop in work’s building

too bad they weren’t there …

my hair, don’t get me started on my hatred

so full of self-loathing today it’s a bit desperate.