Archive for the ‘Truth in Sapphics’ Category


August 4, 2009

On a cross, resigned to the half world’s glory,
See him rise, the surrogate son and father.
Carryover prophecy and exquisite
Public relations

Carve the stone below him in clapping darkness.
Still he’ll rise and twist in a cloud-borne transept,
Delegate authority with the whisper—
“Now it is finished.”

Wind-raked hill, the firmament torn and bleeding
In a shell that whistles, a polished vacuum
Holding back the howling of transformation:
Spiritus Sanctus!


June 19, 2009



Through the veins of light in the gothic quarter,
under stone in desolate La Ribrera,
I advance, but not as a guided pilgrim
doggedly seeking

God in Oz apartments or climbing stairs through
dry cement Utopia. Shadow-silver
dreams, the Spanish dance of a Goya etching,
carry me forward.


Acid black, the blood of this city seeks a
common level, splashing at dirty ankles.
Civil war graffiti and worm-rut doorways
decorate alleys

calling forth the conical caps and Roman
juries, ghosts and vaporous ruminations.
Undigested tapas or bad sangria.
Poisonous daydreams.


I have seen the emerald castle’s cornstalk
suns, its cranes and modernist script Hosannas,
shattered glass mosaics and forms of nature
frozen in sunlight.

Here its baking mountain of concrete martyrs
caked in summer guano will never find me.
Here the face of death is a nightmare only,
swimming in darkness.

Barcelona, June 20, 2009


June 17, 2009


Half the population of motorcycle
riders bucking traffic along the Rambla
Catalunya prove to be senioritas
modeling T-shirts.

Sunday Adoration

January 21, 2009


Hail thee, Wife!, O delicate, birdlike creature,
rare in form, unique in divine resplendence,
long the beaming object of my devotion,
long in the kitchen,

gnawing on a doughy suburban bagel
baked the size and shape of a regulation
softball schmeared with cream cheese and lox, engaging
Goddess of Caldwell.

Bad Form

December 31, 2008


Columned heart, cathedral-like mind, you live for
Medieval Latinate architecture.
I’ll admit I’ve read and enjoyed Bukowski.
Call me an asshole.


December 9, 2008


Kissed by Madame Streisand and patted softly,
Bush goes out escorted by Secret Service,
clears the Crawford showcase, and moves to Dallas.
Grandfather clauses

guarantee his open and swift departure,
granting him a dubious grace–the redux
rehabilitation of Richard Nixon.
Caveat emptor.


September 25, 2008

Massachusetts relatives fill the doorframe
Circa 1900, a party portrait,
Gothic pose with acetate jack-o-lanterns,
Glowering, grinning

Mother’s side, prefiguring Charles Addams,
Stiff New England archetypes, suits and blouses
Black and white, the period’s dire response to
Camera lenses

Cut with Peter Lorry and Lizzie Borden
Mug shots, hands at sepia parlor margins
Twist and fold, theatrical orchid gestures
Beckon the living

Forth from sheets of chemical bath and fixture
Toward a whelping century’s dog eared border,
Through this doorway, into the living quarters
Buried, emerging

Women, eyes exhumed in a cask of starlight,
Billow wide and dominate, role reversal
Sets their haircut manikin partners servile,
Off in the shadows,

Center left and Indian style, a single
Child is sitting, staring aside, I know this
Ancient boy in obstinate tweed and necktie,
Grandfathered silver.


June 29, 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
Skeleton awnings.