Under Clouds

Picture 1550

for M.C.   lying beside you, I think perhaps I was meant to be a dog before a poet, a pack animal instead of a girl. puppy calls sounding more like language than worded discussions on the distance. clarity under…

Polka Pun Frog


A black widow poised on the ruby bracelet
as the transparent tooth was wrapped in dog hair.

Tarot sharks circled the weather.

It was the same scene in fog city.
The library had only one copy

The Summer of Inevitable Dada


Tristan Tzara, the late father of the Dada movement, once said something interesting. But it serves no purpose to quote him.

Please understand that Tzara was capable of being common, devoid of daring details. It was his secret that he realized it is also ours- that he never saw how common this secret made him. How common our costumes. How medieval our feigned interests.


Your image stretches across the great northwest reclining and nude and your memory space invades my western hemisphere I often quote your more memorable quips and can’t quite quit the habit of mainlining the intoxicating and misleading rhetoric of your…

Writer’s Block


Ever so often I unearth another precious nugget of worthless wordplay which I cash in by spilling it all out on the page and then I mine my mind for another rush of gold and often come up with only…

The Forgotten

East New York looks like Munich after WWII.  Guts of buildings, no certain # of stories, spray paint black where there had been windows, the copper piping stolen.  Blocks and blocks of desolation ghetto.  They come in the dark from…

My Law of Three


My internal clock decides I will start
whatever day Hell has set forth for me,
irrespective of how much little sleep I got
that night.

Earth – An Absence

Planet Hollywood

earth people are not beautiful, I wrote
in that first attempt of a poem long ago.
earth people are lacking something
I could never capture exactly.
only later – much later,
when I met an earther in the flesh –
did I find what.


Grande Casino Internacional Monte Estoril

In the early nineties, one
returns, briefly, to suffer
receptions in graceless former Party rooms,
where incredibly ancient and stupid
retainers mourn His Majesty


Neurons by Jack Galmitz

I couldn’t find my way home. Every day after work now it was the same thing. The city (I supposed) had deconstructed the one train that left me a bus ride from my home. There were gaping holes and twisted, teetering steel beams where before there had been a subway line.