Archive for June, 2008
Beaten, bled in thundering summer morning,
Legume-flower-lavender sheets absorbing
Desktop dust, your ghost is a voilier storming
Bride of the weather.
Piled on bullet-riddled Phoenician harbor
Catacombs, the chapels in rockwork ardor
Shadow broken Vieux Port hotels, a bartered
Language and calyx.
Heroine, your dampness and odor linger,
Follow through the Bourse and its moonlit supper
Toward this café battlement’s hopeless-fingered
Oil on canvas 36″ x 24″
All the southwest corner knew of Gandhi
Hidden statue aura blue of Gandhi
Saturday before the bars are open
Clear-eyed walk in the milieu of Gandhi
Union Square is sunblind sky cathedral
Circle light is also true of Gandhi
Black or bronze or green I don’t remember
Deli roses? Ho! The shoe of Gandhi!
Sundress shifts a pink carnation nipple
Cymbals plink Bougarabou of Gandhi
Portrait glass enlightens incandescent
Paint from pencil lines I drew of Gandhi
Color upstate trucks of fruit and flowers
Petal rictus, ah virtù of Gandhi
Through the glass I elevate with the doctors
yanked by chance, the goyish meshuge boychik
rising to rabbinical spring convention.
crowd against the corner of full length mirrors
dangling in a system of cable pulleys.
“Hello!” badges scribbled in magic marker
curl at the edges.
Luck would have me wearing the black fedora,
hirsute, hair shirt, overcoat austere business.
Funhouse image davening to the skyline–
On Saturday, the search for bodies stopped
behind the smoking barricade of wooden
horses. Rudy Giuliani stood in
shit a little while. The Yankees dropped.
It felt like falling. And I felt like singing
Nessun Dorma, as the rank and file
locked arms and firefighters stormed the pile.
Nothing rose. The clock alarm kept ringing.
The Barefoot Muse accepted “Bodhi Day,” a rondeau I dedicated to the memory of my journalistic doppelganger, Helga Tilton. It was written on the day of her memorial service last Dec. 8th. There was something special about the day, and once I got to the slightly skeptical turn at the end of a poem celebrating the Eastern mystical, I felt I was tuned in to my friend.
The featured poet in this issue of The Barefoot Muse is Ray Pospisil, another journalist friend I (we) lost recently.
Also in the issue, editor Anna Evans reviews my chapbook, Aquinas Flinched, as well as Austin MacRea’s Graceways and Alan Wickes’ Prospero’s Breakfast. All three are published by Modern Metrics.
The summer edition of Umbrella took my sonnet “Montclair Father, 46,” along with a photograph of me standing against Laffite’s Blacksmith Shop in New Orleans taken by my niece, Sarah. The Bumbershoot, a sister publication of Umbrella for light verse took “Love in the Time of Viagra,” which the editors apparently think is funny…! Apparently they also think the photograph of me standing against Laffite’s Blacksmith Shop in New Orleans taken by my niece, Sarah, is funny!