Saturday, May 28, 2011


Winter streets and frozen
fountains how easy
to forgive oneself the chill

leaves burning on the plain
'neath Orvieto. Your eyes
the same skewed colors as

my own, turned down
sterile, stern, on
our child in disapproval.

And now these giggling girls
you forgot yourself in
putrid memories this train

sunk in soggy ponds
and the bloody chamber
of Bluebeard's secret room

where you walled us all up.

           Florence-Rome, in transit

Betti Blu's Mortgage by Lee Foust

Friday, May 13, 2011



"I see your face driving like a stolen car" --Beth Orton 



Skirt around the sin of circling around a skirt, that soft cleft—a little Latin chin, a little original sin—I sin, I swear I did, and still I win—despite your theft.

Every song worth singing is blue but nothing about the poet's “I” cools the tune; the guy that saw you pissing in your wishing well swears he won't tell; still, why do you keep on hidin' that hidden devil so long up your flue?

I sees it through each and every day; then I throw it, toss it, let it drift away and it's gone, long gone—anyway—in all its inconceivably allusive staying on or maybe coming back in the chorus of some cheesy folk singer's cheesy folk song.

My memory of it—and you—is gone, yet the words I write are still trying to kill you over and over—and again—can only reach out further into the pain in the ass that you continue to become, a stain on the world I wiped, I washed, and wrung out to dry (still gardening at night).

Because that skunk you always were, it seems to me, the pug hiding its white stripe in all that black, came skulking up to spray and you stunk up the place with all your grip-less gripe in gray and endless abandoning of your you and he and I.

From love to lacklove, juice to must, and justice to dust in 60 seconds; you keep on waving goodbye but never leave.



The frill sin throngs forward, friendlier than the thrush but still wrong somehow, too wholesome to be so much more than low as were the holes we packed into the Albert Hall. How many? More than enough rough trade for a stinker like you, Sue Snoo, another literary character not of my owning. Only, such renown still alludes to all of the meeces that the fat cats hated to pieces. The immaculate trap of knowing the right cat flap through which to pass—insert Mark Bolan song here—O, frail-witted composer of white waifs and anorexic dolls in pencil skirts. The girl of my nightmares approaches—everything that I ever sized-up suddenly at the tip of my tongue.

One singular procreation, a composite of counter-espionage desires surrounding a central intelligence agency knows me and all of my intel inside quid pro quo attachments, Clarisse.

I keep on going in the wrong direction, appeasing my torturers in this false Stockholm syndrome that I can’t seem to escape without dire consequences of the third kind. I have come to love fatherhood now that we have squeezed the lie of smotherhood out of that dusty tube and brushed our teeth with it. An immaculate smile makes my false face yours when I still hope you have no way of understanding my honesty in all of your sickly calculated actions adding up to a long gone thrill of seeing me succeed where you had insured yourself that I would fail.


Tuesday, May 10, 2011


Red haze purple blessing alarms don't sound today
i can't get up the sun's so hot
on sister morphine's eyelids
along her way to all the heart-stopping o.d.s
in "tiny Greenwich village apartments”
living the New Science where
not speaking does something
to sleep's tyranny
while history's blue recycling bins
get dug through by philosophers of the needle,
by philosophers of Tompkins Square Park
where the Shadow's pigs go mad
again in their circular, again in their weekly
and if you sleep too long you'll never get up
if you sleep too long you'll never get up
and every movie you see's just another sonnifero now
every button on the t.v.'s another bitter
sleeping pill to swallow and the rich
are only happy 'cause the poor despise them
they don't own anything other than that
that's useful.


Morpheus by Lee Foust