Thursday, November 24, 2016

"The Scrovegni damnation"

The Scrovegni damnation
suspended, the chapel
I will not see this morning;
crisp, fall, Padovan
foschia and revolution.
A kneeling dog
Before the museum.
Religion of the elite
who keep churches
as churches
once kept relics.
“Boys keep swingin’,
boys always work it out.”

Kidnapped that girl
because her father
,a Vatican official,
who, no doubt,
don’t give a shit
about this Roman amphitheater,
but did something nasty
to somebody...

power we do things
and consequences
fall on women
                        we conceive
of as other, as ours, as
a social commodity.
The Scrovegni loaned

and we paid interest
at the Vatican bank
in blood.


Thursday, October 6, 2016

Once a month we host an Open Mic here in Florence at the Hostel Tasso. Last night I got Nadia Koski and Marcello from Sushi Rain to help me with out with an old love poem of a sort.

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

Another cool, gray San Francisco day
,July, toward the end of the world.

I will never see clearly again
except through glass. I’ll

walk ‘til my legs give out, I suppose,
looking hard at the outside of things.

Love will be my mantra
‘gainst all this American suspicion, hate,

and self-repression. By tomorrow
you’ll have forgotten you ever read this

but I’ll remember that you did.
I’m the archivist of nothing in particular.

July, 5th, 2016
San Francisco

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

San Francisco II

Although it’s all visually familiar
the city only
                        feels like home
In the Tenderloin.

                                    Leavenworth St.’s “got
that home beat,” that
Je ne sais quoi

                        on the edge
of desperation. Transsexual
with a laptop on the sidewalk
purse open: smokes, blankets,
and that smell bathrooms
                                                were built
to neutralize.

                        Sometimes places
are hard to get to because
they’re even harder to get out of.

This lowlife
                                    the camaraderie
                                    of abject survival. After all,

smiles are brighter
                                    your suburban misery,
                                    Mr. Jones—

where it all happens without you
and my head is the only
since all the places it carries around
only bring me home 
to the cool, gray city
                                                of love.

June, 2016
San Francisco

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

God Is a Bullet

The bubble of your fear buys you a gun. Your new automatic fingers embody fear, load up, and get itchy. The bubble swells inside the barrel to bursting. The automatic metallic mind in your hand makes your prissy wet and your colic hard.

The neighbor’s dogs bark. They growl and cower. “Kill! Kill!” they bark, for they hate the people on the other side of the fence. The fence is their bubble, their defenestrating defense, the wall between their cowardice and false courage. “Kill! Kill!” they bark on the internet. “We love Jesus!”

Jesus loads his gun. He is afraid too. afraid of Christmas. of not being believed in. of the bad thief—he might be black. of the other side of town. of Muslims who hate his “way of life” crowned by death on every corner. There’s no other way out.

Mostly Jesus shoots his wife. or his wife shoots him (they are not always sober). Occasionally Jesus shoots up a school—but that is his own personal responsibility. Jesus, after all, will live forever. unless he decides to shoot himself—which is the most common use of a handgun in the United States of Jesus.

There is no greater hatred than the hatred of he who would take his own life for the fear of his fellow man.

All hail the gun, lord of lords and king of kings. To call for mercy is to know that the gun knows no such thing.


Sunday, May 15, 2016

With Apologies to Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that old minimum wage,
Old age should burn and rage at close of workday;
Rage, rage against the insufficiency of the wage.

Though wise ones know a proper wage is sage,
Because Democrat words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that old minimum wage.

Good workers, the last wave by, crying how to gauge
Their frail deeds of labor danced in a green workway,
Rage, rage against the insufficiency of the wage.

Wild ones who taught GOP speech to asuage,
learned, too late, and grieved legislation on its way,
Do not go gentle into that old minimum wage.

Grave workers, near 6 PM, who see with blind outrage
their interests blaze like meteors and be tossed away,
Rage, rage against the insufficiency of the wage.

And you, my father, there on the sad payday,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce Republican tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that old minimum wage.
Rage, rage against insufficiency of the wage.

Friday, March 11, 2016

Newly uploaded to Bandcamp, Sputnik, the aural companion to my anthology of stories and poems about the mystery of place, Sojourner. Here for your streaming and downloading pleasure are 17 pieces from the book and two others that didn't quite make the cut, performed a Capella, with drums, with music, and sometimes other, more interesting sounds. If you already own the book, help yourself to this free download, otherwise consider donating a bit o' cash towards all the artist's hard work here, or sending me a whopping 15 Euro through Bandcamp/Paypall, for which I will mail you a signed paperback copy of Sojourner anywhere in Europe, the US, or Canada.


Thursday, March 3, 2016

San Francisco

It’s a sad
truth, how appreciation
springs from lack.
Black night’s agonies
trickle from my fingers
in stoic philosophies—
I die a thousand deaths
in my mind.

I am I, saddest
motherfucking truth
there is. The fog
lifts and I sit
on wooden steps
—Espresso and an Export
‘A’—and live again.

Do we all throw
away lives so easily,
so thoroughly? Lee
And Debra, Lee and Debra.
Debra and Lee. Eurydice,
Eurydice, Eurydice.

San Francisco

Sunday, February 14, 2016

A Valentine

“Her body is the shape of my hands.”
–Paul Eluard

My Galatea, smooth and warm
as sandstone against her palms
,firm fingers caressing,
sculpts me each and every
day with her curved and slender
presence. Venus has no auguries
,neither pearl nor rose, to prove
if I were worthy of her chisel
against my stony heart
not yet come to the apex
of the wheel.


Friday, February 12, 2016

House Hunting

The Prodigal's Chair has just published the opening tale of Poison and Antidote in their "House & Home" issue. It's called, oddly enough, "House Hunting" Check it and them out--a great publication straight outta Boston. 

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

In My Role as the Most Hated Poet on Facebook

(with apologies to Mark Eitzel)

In my role as the most hated
poet on facebook, I've met
a lot of well-web-presenced
discourse holders

whose feelings were far more
precious than mine, whose opinions
,right as rain, (when the fuck
was rain ever right?) illuminated
me with immensities

of the ego
of the solitary midnight
poster, nothing better to touch
than the keys,
opening up worlds of potential
space, expanding universes
of I, me, mine.

I prefer the kid
from South Carolina who posted
on my YouTube video simply this:
"Stupid. Gay."

Brevity, you know,
is the soul of wit.