I am weighing
the poem and

it’s too heavy
it contains a

great white
shark with a

shoe in its
stomach

don’t know
how it got

there and a
mysterious

envelope
in the mailbox

those stay I
think still when

one looks at the
poem in profile

it resembles a
fat man exiting

a fast food
restaurant

I tried a trash
compactor but

it’s still bulky
maybe the

pregnant woman
should go—it’s

heartbreaking what
happens to her

he’s a man
with his coffee

he’s a ghost
watching him-

self an actor in
a play a

****** mystery
also a slave

toiling in the
fields teaching

himself to read
a woman

murdered the
actor says

I have seen
the large beast

the slave escapes
journeys to the

shimmering sea
pursued by

bounty hunters
the ghost watches

himself wash out
his coffee cup

begins his
day as usual

embattled
masses

somnambulists
foaming at

the mouth
rabid

hallucinating
incurable

and a blurry
figure a

mad scientist
next to his

invention
stainless

steel
automated

animosity as
the thick black

smoke of war
begins to

obscure the
scene a few

yearn to
awaken some

dance the
sacred

kookamunga
some say

the save-me
prayer a scant

few ascend
translucent

eye-ball
shaped the

color of the
sky at sunrise

the newspaper
spread out

like a tablecloth
obituaries

on one side
comics on


the other
the dead

smiling the
comics tragic

black white
gray world

made of
fuzzy dots

an obsolete
medium ready

to line the
bottom of

the song
bird’s cage

a nightingale
whose love

call goes
unanswered

the poet on his
knees holding a

jack-o-lantern
above his head

as the Great
Leader steps

behind it with
its crooked smile

obscuring his
head the eclipsed

blood moon hangs
over the Fool in

green and red
dancer’s tights

holding his book
Chaos Theory—

The Order Within
Disorder and he

opens the gate
of the lion’s cage

and distant
twisting

black smoke
swirling

fires of war
as translucent

Celestial Beings
hold a banner

that reads
Beginnings Are

Endings
below them a

journalist prostrate
in the mud deathly

ill vomiting a
bile black as ink

night falling
clouds

dusky pink
murky gray

over the seaside
sailor’s head

this envelope
sealed

labeled vital
information

enclosed
lying on the

pavement in
front of her

house what is
it? her foot

moving it
aimlessly

like the sailor
on leave

then spinning
like the

drunken sailor
then a gust

of wind blows
it down the

street like the
drunken

sailor’s
white cap

forgotten the
next morning

like it never
existed

he steps out
into the tepid

ambivalent
evening air

the envelope
into the out-

going mail slot
collect the junk

mail ad papers
of an era

already gone
the sky dark

listless clouds
neighborhood

mute asleep
he pauses for

a numb minute
a dog’s long

whiney bark
in the house

he washes the
ink residue

from his
aging hands

a vibrant blue sky
white gulls crying

slowly awaken
naked in

an empty end-
less parking lot

walk past a gray
failed mall onto

a rarely traveled
dirt road at seaside

an old man sitting
perfectly still

in the fading
overcast sun

his wife leads me
to a boat and says

go with the current
it will take you there

the slowly roiling
water gray green

bruise-blue the
sun setting like

a bloodshot
eye closing

I sail into an
unknowable night

as the moon hides
its glowing face

he enters
timeless
charcoal

suit a hunter’s
ear
just one bullet

point
on a
sheet of

yellowed
paper
filling the

room with
a few tangled
terms

dogs
cats
rain

said with
an amiable
typeface

now in this
world we

build an
unseen

bridge
to a new

world
real

as a
numberless

clock
tangible

as a body
floating

in an
undiscovered

lake a
bridge

we build
with a

mind
quiet

as a
wordless

poem
we make

our way to
a destination

yet to
be known

yet to
be reconciled

it’s dusk as I
enter the grocery

a jug of distilled
water in my cart

in the cereal aisle
Octavio Paz is

constructing a
boat-shaped

sculpture with cereal                                        
boxes and asks

can we ever
escape this brutal

dream? the air
smells of tequila

and musty pages
of an old book

I say I’m just here
for oat milk and

corn flakes—as my
cart drifts briefly

away from me and
he rushes toward me

kisses my forehead
and leaves the store

tears streaming down
his weary face

A salmon now,
I was a man,
a large brain.

My little boat,  
ninth bottle of
beer, trying to

stand, the sun
oppressive,
blinding then

sinking like
a 40 oz can
of malt liquor.

What was I
going to do
once I stood

*****? During
the pondering
I drowned. Now

swimming
back to my
birth-stream to

lay eggs. I may
see lunch, a
worm or herring

then a hook in
my mouth,
I flop onto the

floor of a boat,
one eye looking
up as the

big knife
swiftly
comes down.

ghosts lost have
an aversion

to mirrors
no reflecting

on things
can’t sit still

with music
untenable as

the songs of
sparrows

or the howl
of a house

engulfed
in fire on

a frozen
winter night

An ardent young
woman captive

in a suburban
basement, now

reported missing
but I’m here

though you don’t
see me, no matter

how loudly I bark                                      
your real name,

sing your secret
needs, or tear

the scab off your
stifled yearning

while you sleep—
I am the obscured

object of your
aching night,

the blackest hole
in your desire.

Not the knife’s
butcher drunk
in the walk-

in cooler, nor
the finger-
printless gun

in the church
pew next to
a sleepy

hymnal, she
confesses, if
you want to

**** a thing,
strangle its
tender pink

throat—just
give it to
academia.

The room,
bone white,

painted
freshly,

the clear
glass of

water—
reflected

in the small
oval

mirror
—sitting

on the
well worn

seat of
a chair,

vivid,
illuminating

after-
noon sun.

Glide, loop, float
gulls on a
crisp breeze.

Trudging with
groceries, an
elderly man.

Dim blue glow,
a clock—what
this long in-

complete life
sees in the
wondering dark.

Death, so close
to the mail-
box at noon.

Glide, loop, float
gulls on a
crisp breeze.

There isn’t a
single

soul on
any of

these dark
deserted

streets,
in these

sleeping
homes, in this

barren
parking lot,

in these
abandoned

stores in
a failed

mall, in
these lifeless

restaurants, and
I don’t know

where I
am or how

to locate
myself on

this dank moon-
less night.

Like a constipated
mule, the old man
limps toward me

saying, The end is
near—the words
falling from his mouth              

like congealed bacon
fat, then the young
woman emerges from

the churning sea—her
auburn hair, alabaster,
almost translucent

naked skin, fearless
like thunder, casting
a long shadow—The

world ended long
ago, she says, and
we walk onto the

emerald green great
lawn, her in the old
man’s cerulean

sky-colored overcoat,
and she points to the
tower—figures falling

from its large windows—
Fear of truth, she asserts
referring to the bodies

smashing like overly ripe
melons on the ground,
then she says, Your

classroom is on the
sixth floor, and as I
open the heavy door

she states, The class
is on how unnecessary
the class is—then adds

Please do try and not
stumble or trip near
an open window, sir.

The man in the
cellar is forging
the books of

history, as the
ghost in the attic
is starting to

realize that he
is dead, and the
piano tuner in

the den is an
international
spy, and the corpse

is in the trunk of
the car in the vermin
ruled alley and the

ghost sees that he
can simply leave
this world, which

he suddenly does
and all of this—
instantly left behind.

A fly buzzes
madly around

the room, and
ricochets off the

mirror, then
ricochets off the

window, then
lands on a leaf

in a painting
and it resides

there for the
remainder of its

incredibly brief,
minuscule life.

A statuette of Durga,
alluring goddess of

divine destruction
and new creation,

in her sky blue and
cloudy white robes,

on a shelf above the
swirling gray smoke of

a burning unfiltered
cigarette in the

sunny orange ashtray
on the kitchen table-

top the color of the
churning stormy sea.

A dot on the far
left side of the page—

that is where I started,
and a dot on the far

right side—where I am
now, and a dot for each

detour that was made,
and when all the dots

are connected the
image formed is of

a wounded man
with one leg, and a

broken crutch, limping
toward the future.

My little boat and I,
tossed like a juggler’s
eggs, then into the sea,

and as I stagger onto
the beach I see her,
June, my next door  

neighbor who is 95
years old, but somehow
now looks 25, reclining

under the blackest night
sky, as she says, You
survived, the last three

folks went under—and
if you’re going to speak
keep it under 100 syllables,

past that it’s just babbling—
so I sit next to her,
she holds my hand,

my mind goes quiet,
and I can’t think of
anything worth saying.

I am the dead
woman slumped
against the shower

wall—don’t know
why, but I simply
stopped breathing,

and the water’s pelting
my face, as the dog
sits, staring at me,

as I recall how much
I hated my job,
all the politics, and

the dog is licking
my face, wondering
when I’m going to

go to the kitchen
and feed her, as my
husband is waking,

expecting his
breakfast to already
be on the table.

The Minister Of State
reads the speech
dictated by the toiling

titan of industry,
inventor of the gadget
that everyone needs,

while titan’s wife, the
Baroness, though
talented with an

umbrella and tweezers,
sits idly waiting for a
delivery from the

publicist, who works
into the long night,
crafting the narrative

that all of us fall
into, like the words
in this sentence.

The calliope plays
its jaunty tune.

A cow is on
fire. A drunken

entrepreneur shoots
an apple off the

head of a child.
A young woman

in the audience
is having a

****** fantasy.
A monkey juggles

beakers of volatile
chemicals. Soon this

carnival will be
bankrupt, but for

them another way of
life is unimaginable.

The room is empty
except for an egg,

about to erupt
with life, as it is

sitting on a chair
in the passing sun.

Fall into that
hole in the shape
of your body

and keep
falling until
you reach a

silent, empty
space, where words
have lost their

use, and emotions
pass through,
like tourists

and your name
has a hollow
ring to it.

The sunrise looks like
something ******

the cat coughed up.
Having not done his

homework all year he
is failing algebra class.

He wakes up in bed,
then falls back asleep.

He’s in the front yard
and can’t find his pants.

The school building is
like a jigsaw puzzle that

is impossible to solve.
The sunrise looks like

something ******.
He wakes up in bed,

then falls back asleep.
Of course he doesn’t

know that he is asleep.
He’s forgotten how to

balance the equation.
The edifice is a puzzle.

I’m in the produce
aisle and the local
fortune teller is

hurling strawberries
at me, as she yells,
Wake up, we’re in for

a wild ride and we
won’t be the same
when it’s over! Then

she charges toward
me, nearly knocks me
over and gives me an

electrified kiss. This
is the time when
peasants harvested

wild strawberries, she
says, then laughs like
a broken church bell.

Listen and
silent have

the same
letters.

Nothing more
to say.

I am assembling
a new gray tweed
suit. The plodding,

solitary elephant is
wandering on a dark
road. I am not an I.

Pinocchio is missing
an arm and speeding
in a big truck. I am

an eye that floats
overhead, smaller
than a pin-point,

nothing really.
In the murky
night Pinocchio

hurtles toward the
idle elephant, but
swerves at the last

moment, then I’m
wearing the tweed
suit, even though

it’s missing a
sleeve, and all three
of its ivory buttons.

In the foreground, a
child’s marble, made of
clear glass, incandescent,
aglow with blue and
green streaks and swirls,
on a table cloth the color
of the ocean on a
bright day, and in the
background, a window,
the inky night sky, the
luminous but gray moon,
smaller than the marble,
flat, distant, and in
the glass, an adult’s
face faintly reflected,
small, ghost-like, colorless,
embedded in the
starless black space.

Who knew there
are so many
poets—lurking

in the shadows,
walking in the
sunlight, running

naked on the
beach, or sleeping
in defunct malls?

The wind-up
clock chimes

from the other
room. On the

wall, a painting
of a landscape

five-thousand
miles away.

The room
illuminated

by lamp-light,
as if it were

the middle of a
long dark night.

Dried, faded red
carnations on
an electric blue

tabletop, a dark
green avocado
sliced open,

revealing the
ripening inner
canary yellow flesh

and sienna brown
seed, and on the
wall above, a

round clock—with
bold black numbers
on a stark white

background—
that audibly ticks
every second.

Gulls are crying
just outside my

window, as I

construct a ship
in a bottle.

The electric blender
is crying as it spins
round and round and

the spilled milk is
making its way to
the edge of the

counter, while the
refrigerator hums its
solemn tune and

something pops up
in the toaster, charred
beyond recognition.

The answer: three.
Two to hold the
ladder, and one
to shoot the gun.

I’m sorry. I
was distracted.
So, what was
the question?

In this
world,

even a
simple

cherry
blossom

constitutes
a miracle.

That's not a
pencil, it’s a
brontosaurus.

I know I am, but
what are you?

Six out of seven
fabled dwarves
are not happy.

They ski down-hill
laughing absurdly,
madly, in sepia-tone,

like an old photo.
One says: ? The
other replies: !

They are judges.
The distant court
house looks small,

like a doll house.
A girl is on the
hill top, her eyes

glisten like a
policeman’s raincoat.
But she doesn’t exist

yet. One day she
will look you in
the eye and say: .

The tea
kettle
whistles

in the
kitchen.
Then all
is quiet.

A cloud
moves  
slightly

and the
room is
a little
brighter.

Even though
there is

nothing about
himself that

he likes, he
defends his

image like he
is singing

the final aria
in a tragic

Italian big
time opera.

What are you doing
to yourselves? I can

not suitably reply
to the question  

posed by the vast,
unfathomable

sea, as my little boat
barely stays afloat.

She is a copywriter
at a law firm, where

the men remind her of

the creepy guy in the
produce aisle, with a

head of iceberg lettuce,

leering at her, smiling
—as she contemplates

the bright blank screen.

An ode to
the broken

world, its
stories and

images
stretched

like taffy to
satisfy an

insatiable
sweet tooth.

As we know from
studying history,
there are four
essential
occupations—
rodeo clown,
shadow, pirate,
and facsimile,
and this revises

a previous
inventory which
included saint,
and saint is now
understood to be
simply an enhanced
facsimile of either
a rodeo clown,
shadow, or pirate.

The open sky
reflected on

the winding
river’s water,

and I slowly
pass by, an

undulating,
a rippling

image for a
brief moment.