symptoms of anhedonia.
                   a triumvirate, perceived
                   Inanition& Inertia& Inaptitude:
                                      they are ugly triplets who hide under leather
                                      and self-loathing &stink of last night’s pinot
                                      noir
                     ­                        from **** knows where.
                   their fingers, cigarette-stained and calloused,
                   reach into my prozac pillboxes
                   &crunch my anxiety (meds)
                   into fluoxetine powder and ivory between
                   their yellowing teeth.

I Do Not Cry When The
Sandman Knocks                                      
For He Sits At                                      midnight:the witching hour,whenthe
My Porch Bearing Sweet                                      siblings curl up besides me to
Dreams &Sister Death, Whose Touch                   ,                   ravage;
I’ve Long Wished For                                                         they will not
                                                                ­                       leave me
                                                              ­             untilthe
                                                         cloyingly sweet
                                         perfume of Death
       is scrubbed clean fromthe

                                                        ­                    pulse
                                                                ­            point
                                                                ­            of
                                                                ­            my
                                                                ­            wrists


There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing for you here.

Nothing will bring me back. In three years time I’ll still be dead. My bed sheet is my shroud and Death holds my wrists in a vice grip. He still leads me below.

                                      here is the untruth:
                                                        ­ i am here,
                                                         Penelope at her loom,
                                                         waiting for a lost lover whom I know
                                                         will take ten years to come back to
                                                         my awaiting arms.

                                      here is the untruth:
                                                        ­ in three years time,
                                                         I’ll still be dead.

                                      here is the truth:
                                                         nothing exists six feet under except:
                                                         hell
                                                         chalk dust
                                                         powdered calcium.

His waltz-walk, just added to loveliness
in a southern township
made a balled hum like a grown elm
sprung from pillboxes or a revved engine –
the tip tapping, centerfold pouring tea
and fertilize the carnal burn.

I have an afterglow from watching him,
he treats it like a sunrise;
it splits to a peak, and dissolves untouched.

We think of such moments as a fever,
I hope he considers my smile a moon jewel
a valuable pepper of pearls
she wept and they fell from her head –
but not I, no, I know that girls do not cry.

And there will be a moment I know
he is walking to me, he will waltz with me.

WHERE THEY AIN'T
( for Kyle )


The sea was drowning
in men


strings of soldiers
like a macabre daisy chain


floating together...a human seaweed
the tide turning red


machine gun fire
stinging the water


so that the waves leapt up
like men of water

mimicking the terror
of our flesh our blood

"JesusJesusJesus!"
I kept hearing myself


saying as if I
wasn't me.


Gramps woulda killed me
for taking the Good Name in vain.


Guess I ain't in Omaha  no more.


An officer torn in two
bullets ripping across his torso

tearing along  the dotted line
like he was a special offer


as easy as that…as easy as that.

One moment you're here
the next...not.


Keep hearing Gramps
talking to me in my head.


"Keep your eye clear..."
as he'd always say


no matter what
the situation or occasion


"...and hit 'em
where they ain't!"


But life ain't always
as clear cut as a baseball game.


And I could never bat for nuts.

I rattled off the names
of the teams of then

to drown out the death rattle
of machine guns...dying men.


"Cleavland Spiders
Trolley Doddgers
Sioux City Cornhuskers
Boston Beaneaters
Allegheny Innocents
Bronx Bombers!"


"Jesus couldn't remember
Jesus Jesus what was


the name of the Yankees
before they was the Yankees?"


Now I was
chanting them like a charm

to ward off fear and death
names  V.  bullets.


Some guys mown down
even as the ramp hit the water


most guys dying
soon as they hit the water


only making it to the shore
as corpses.


"Don't wanna be dead…don't wanna be dead!"


A kid Jesus just a kid
screaming hysterically


just before he got it
in the head.


His gore splattered
all over me.


"Orioles...Orioles...Orioles!"
I keep chanting to my self


always loved
the sound of the word.


The Germans in their pillboxes
keeping the score


more of us dead
than living now.

I get it in the leg - then the other leg.
Crawl into a hole until nightfall.


Live to tell the tale.
So many many didn't.


Pretending I am
seeing with Gramps' eyes.


Wee Willie peerless place hitter of 1903
the little fellow…the big guy


facing the twirlers fearlessly.


"Always keep a clean eye..."

Gramps says
to the kid I was


"...and hit 'em…hit 'em
...where they ain't

These-famous words were spoken by an early 1900s American baseball player named "Wee" Willie Keeler. Keeler was short in stature but had a phenomenal record at the plate, hitting over .300 in 16 of his 19 major league seasons. When asked about his success, his response and advice to other hitters was simply: "Keep your eye clear, and hit 'em where they ain't."

I thought you were beautiful:
You said you'd build your tomorrow, cake and flower,
Slough the hospital Ford with pillboxes envious of celebrities who reflect an insignificant person. Glory be the false pretenses, you see, newly-mown grass, subtle kidneys on the roof, pale widows falling into Othello.

The river of a woman in pants near the lake with some white on the dusty surface of the water was a box of doves, he walked into the water.

The waterfall was permanent and looked back long with high shoes on.