Two of my poems are on the blog of the Fine Arts Work Center’s online writing program, 24 Pearl Street.
Bombs Lift Yanks in Blowout
We have nothing to eat but meat itself.
They’ll raise the threat level to lamb shank
and make Mexico pay for it, ride us bareback
out of the international house of bondage
and into the deli of wrath.
I hate waking up in the dark
of a sunny spring morning,
getting mugged in the park
where every faction has an equal and opposite erection.
Move along, nothing to see here,
better to turn a blind eye
into a sow’s ear.
eye the ice-cube map of the world,
mulling over its wise cracks
the stuttering sutures on our lips,
the guttering flame of our flickering wicks.
I hate the whine of a leaf-blower, the spleen of a stone-thrower,
the bony glow of a sleek preacher, a teacher
who tells you one thing one day
and out the other. Straight lines, I’m told,
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