Friday, January 27, 2017

Friday Poems in Ascent Aspirations Magazine

My poem, "Ghosts" appeared in
Friday Poems in Ascent Aspirations Magazine

The backyard railroad tracks
and the coal piles of Ohio
die in 1943.
The guilty running
through the wheatfield
and the evening
tomato feasts die
in 1952. The passionate
fistfights pass away hard.
Brenda Laupton and Eugene
die with them.
Patty and Bobby Proctor
and the first touch of
girl's knee takes over along
with the wrestling matches
on the grass. They die in
1955. The last episode
of local fame dies in 1958.
The modern algebra book
dies in 1960. The final
argument about the evils of
behaviorism dies in 1962.
The Frieden calculator
dies in 1965. Barbara C
and the Upper West Side
turns to dust.
A recklessness,
grows out of canned tuna
in 1964. The bean loaf is invented.
Birth borealists the sky.
Special spaghetti sauce,
the dart of dodge all
flow like a great
cold lake over the flames
until she flickers.
The great north dies
after the century passes.
How long will
the forest last? It's
already November.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

The Man in the Back

I am an immigrant
yet the citizens
put me in charge of
their purity temple.
I keep out the
scraps of what has
entered foreign mouths
or landed on the infested earth,
what was in and fell out.
They could have used sand,
but they prefer
the power of alkaline guava and
oil that breaks
the skins of demons.
I stand over the blazing water,
that burns them to hell,
down the twirling pathway,
scalding my flesh.

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Optical Physiology

The palace
has a corridor,
walls inlaid
with a textured filagree
faintly French. It
stays in my eyes.
I don't know where it's from.

Real vision initially
distorts what is there.
It's hard to divest myself of vision.
Then there's fire
red from the light
that quietly cools
leaving something deep-imprinted
hard on the mental flesh.
Hard from memory, beyond

Monday, January 02, 2017


When you get to my age,
imagination is no longer
insanity. Each fruit of
pleasant life a treasure,
may be picked and savored.
It is beyond caring.
And the riches of
imagination can be deeper
than the bed and room
and even the cold winter trees,
dead flowers.