poetry, typography


this ancient winnow of mine;

bare sieve, collective sigh:

the brutal eye-said night, where shuffles here

the feet that were mine;

these corrosive pillars,

unmined the connection they imply, a throat bared to the sigh,

where the nigh that could find and place

all those breathless bodies bedded to

the mar bled toll;    ;           ;


my mother in a paper box, perfect square,

exact 6” x 6” x 6”

rationally enough post-9/11 fears led the airport security inspector to inspect her. cotton swab run swift, post-some-chemical-dipped, along its seams; I wondered, how do you seal a cardboard box containing someone’s mortal remains? the rage. the rage at him.

my father then, less freshly dead, by now I am

both late and gleaming; shiny, crystal-edged.

you see? dip your fingers: here and here. now run your fingertip around my rim.

do not I sing?

“My plane,” I said, “I’m late for my plane.”


what then.

a pale hen lays no brown eggs.

a pall hung over L.A. None drowned today.

a ball swung. at missed. the doctor owned

naught but toes. one tires

of declaratives.


that is, it.


a pale star hangs

, taut

upon the rim of Salem – “salaam” – amen – ‘s morn


now rain.

the bell’s the clearest peal.


re. a. son


a finenest enabler

what else can make us w(r


se after this day





poetry, typography

and now for something somewhat different

in this arroyo

hope spreads like a squared

rivulet in rent echoes

what armies we could feed from

the disposables

temerity machines from

derivates the sawtoothed rose

hips langorous defilements at the cool

green treeline of this nightwhere

breath sublimes in crystal

line the adored lung

production makes of

solace isolate delights

truffles before

wise swine dig sensitive

probosci all aflutter

the loamy chrysalis she

the tools there rust with use

analysis cherishes

its sawn bones