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through a hole in a wood
through a hole in a wood plank face of a tent on a fencepostbeaks wide open baby swallows two or three a band of amateur birds a choirof voices that haven’t maturedthat haven’t trained to singthey cheep cheepcheepfrom the stage that is a floorof block wood in a small house made of two one by…
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when the elector leaves dresden
when the elector leaves dresdenleaves his mother sophie to answerthe lords of saxony and the emperor’s menwhile he rides one may morning out on a palfreyaccompanied by his huntsman his falconera guest or two with an escortof squires apprenticed to the knights who ridecoursers and great horseswhen he arrives staysat his hunting palace at rochlitz…
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some of those
some of those spirits in the air over the mountain gathered themselves into a girlwind who wanted music before there was a word for music and slowly she began to dance and danced herself into a salsa dance and danced herself round and round and danced herself into a spin and spun faster and faster…
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once upon a time
Years ago, I submitted this poem to Pif Magazine for publication: They published only the first half of it. I wasn’t happy with the ending either; and for thirty years I tried to make a more satisfying ending for the poem, without success. Today, with more experience in reading and writing poems, it occurs to…
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a pregnancy begins with
a pregnancy begins witha decision to keep a kittenone that’s left behind in the middle of a summer night in which people emptyan apartment across the sidewalkinto a single box on a pickup trucka kitten that comes in the colourof a sky pregnant with rain one that mews and scratchesclaws at the outside of the…
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there’s horizon where memory begins
there’s horizon where memory beginsyesterdayi stopped at the old place on forty thirdthe house was bulldozed years agothe last traces hauled awayand yet it vaguely sitson the farthest horizoni’d point a fingerbut i know you see it toofrom here the painton the old wood siding looks crackedpeeled faded yellowedor yellow i’m not sureshow me the…
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beware
bewarethe hollow of the planet that revolveson the axis between the povertieson an old man’s shouldersit’s the oven that fills with firethen frost then again with fire the forgewhere forms the idea to steal the goldearrings from a lady’s lobesthe silver pendant from her throatand from her doublet the brassbrooches beware the ideathat becomes firm…
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this is a poem
this is a poemit’s a litwindow in the nightnot even mom drivesout of town into the country to look in through it if she did she’d see something of mei’d tell her it’s also a door something of me comes out throughshe’d remind me i tried that once before tried to push something i thought…
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as this time
as this timebetween eternity and eternity iseternity flesh stretchedacross an old man’sface in the forever before his funeralis flesh destined to becomesoil is soil are fieldsfallow that fold into and wrinkleout of the lack of vegetation in crevassesand dry creek beds in ravines through whichin july sweat tricklesask yourself if that landscape expressesinsolence watchthat country…
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i’ll tell you the metaphor i’ll tell you the lie
i’ll tell you the metaphor i’ll tell you the liethis is that there is here then is now i’ll tell you the clothingdress life up put makeup on its facecoathanger a pair of tight levis up its legs cover its asswire a bra add support to firm its sagging formbutton a blouse to accentuate the…
Jake's Flea Market 