Monday Poem

I’m listening to something.I don’t know what it’s called but it’s Chopin. It’s something Alexa pulledfrom the high capacity byte magazineof her small black canisterwhich sits under a lamp upon a tableagainst the wall (where most of us have spentat least a little time, sweating)it’s power umbilical plugged to an outlet,its invisible wireless thread stretched…

Monday Poem

In the Middle of Hosanna snow’s piled against the generator smooth white talusat the foot of sheer thought inarctic regions of mind through glass the near tangleof bare forsythia beneath draped wirespole to pole is a snap of unchecked ruminationsthat fold upon themselves in crazy chiaroscuroa dispensation of light expected in a skull of whimswhile…

Monday Poem

Whiplash and Mercies silence thick as her stewsfilled my grandmother’s housebut for the cars on 15 on wet nightsclose, hissing toward Picatinnyblack Buicks, big black Packardsheavy as her lifewide whitewalls spinningon two-lane asphaltbefore the interstatesliced throughtable in her living rooma glut of snaps of Jim and JackHoward Frank Velma RuthGladys Leo Leroy Patthe lot of…

Monday Poem

More Legal by the Minute, More Difficult to Fire photo of a rightist with gun, FB 2016, pistol pointed right at camera barrel practically screwing the lensbright silver halo at the business endthe moment the flash went off:………………………………. lightning! leaddressed in camouflage he was neat.beard.militarish. intending to be a threat maybe pretendingto be a threat…

Monday Poem

TV, Bronx News 6/30/17 Gun again.In this case a pissed-offformer employeewith a not-so-extraordinarysense of personal privilege to take life by right, which in the American zeitgeisthas become popular asan act of self expression affordedby liberty through an amendment to law lucrative to private sector arms interestswho live by death through means of tiny explosionsof sulfur…

Monday Poem

Blots In inkwell times when quills were used (ends of sharpened feathers splitwhich above a writer's work twitchedas when a bird would scratch an itch)we scratched our hieroglyphs in night-black licks pausing intermittently to dip the split quill's endinto wells candlelit in nights as black as pitch We coaxed from shades what they might think.We…