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






Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s