Friday, February 20, 2009

Dr. John Babylon


The lights on under and through
Dig round the roots and live
Burn up the sky for me
Small mystery to make, to match my marvel
Far away prickling of peace
to see without thinking.

We drink to die
we smoke to see without ourselves in this way
freedom from me
closing the openings
closings the opening

Thursday, April 10, 2008


Images on the tv screen
flicker and fade, resurface.
They do not match the sounds
emerging in long, rolling waves.

The old, old movie tells the tale
of Noah, his gray beard, his ark,
and the complexities of God's mosaic.
The dialog, however, offers up
a French existentialist comedy about
laughing at despair.

Such inconsistencies can feel
like the universe opening up and
showing you a secret that
it's been keeping for ages.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008


God's voice on the radio again.

Divine revelation is full
of essential vitamins & minerals
and can be included
in a complete breakfast
you open yourself up to it
you stand on tiptoes
and look upwards, upwards.

Keep your ears open and God
may share a bowl of Rice Krispies with you.

Soon soon soon
it will be
time for lunch,
a time for meat
and sweet siesta.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

but sometimes

Television announces
with a zest for crisis
the terror alert level
has gone from "oops"
to "oh, fuck it"
so today is a good day
for watching the skies.


And so goes winter
in the gold rush years,
the tiger getting closer.
Poetry based on faulty premises.
Rubicon river just behind me.
Thought I was running forward,
but I've barely begun to gather.


Sleep almost feels like a memory
after seven nights of insomnia.
I slide the bed into the corner
and pile atop it the collection
of books known as to-be-read
and so
when sleep comes like a flood
(and it will, someday)
I will curl up on the rug
like a man in a lifeboat.


The weather ahead feels invigorating,
the electricity in the air causes
the hair on my arms to stand straight up.

Friday, February 22, 2008

northern wolf

Lenin sits
banging on his old typewriter,
that 1961 model with
the sticky S key and
a missing question mark.
This goddamn great novel
will not be coaxed so easily
from its Platonic cave it seems.

Summer, 1979, 4th street.
It's like a scene from an American film,
curtains in the breeze of a summer day
while the smells of human endeavor drift
through the open windows.

Russia, the idea of
a Soviet worker's state,
just an image, a memory.
Only America now, and fuck it
there will be a great American novel
spilling from his worker's
stiff and callused fingers.
American because
the line between the haves
and the have-nots is deep,
flows down into the bedrock,
forms a crucial part of the foundation.

Yet this is old news and
there are other divisions
worth celebrating
and writing about.

From the apartment down below,
same time as every day,
the sounds of rock and roll.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

happiness is an option

The Mongol Hordes besieged our city
during the heart of winter,
as a blizzard swept in like a shroud.
Visibility was measured in inches and
not even dogs would venture into the snow.

When our bullets ran out
the captains ordered their men
to load the catapults
with fallen soldiers
and fling
those broken, bloody bodies
at the invaders.

I tried to tell them
that I
was still breathing.

no regrets

Putting on the mask
is the last thing I do
before going to work.

It's showtime!