• Chinatown Valentine

    Chinatown: a neon mantis.
    Hailstones tapping a
    Mandarin braille of love.... more »

  • Corporeal

    This flesh is
    as we conceive

    each sparkling pin... more »

  • Death Loves Soup

    How is it that death loves soup
    best here in my kitchen, drinking alone
    with a pot bubbling on the stove?... more »

  • Father And Son In The Second Person

    One day he will come into the bathroom
    to watch you use the blade. And at five
    or six or however old he still won't have
    the right words, but what he'll be looking for... more »

  • Four Accidentals

    First, you die. Then I choose the place and time
    to brush away the dry leaves, rolling aside
    the note-heads of pill-bugs and curled centipede clefs
    testing the edge of your guitar with the calloused... more »

  • Guitar Player Between Towns

    He counts time to the metronome slashes
    of white center-line that refuse to fall into song
    as his headlights switch on the amplified eyes
    of deer powered up to spring into the full... more »

  • Matin

    Luminous seconds falling before
    the alarm that always becomes

    The darkness tumbling to an edge set... more »

  • Ode To The Sirens Of Our American Commute

    What is it about sitting inside our cars
    that puts an invisible shield around our sense
    of see and being seen? Of course, we're used
    to fat head in his uber SUV, his fat head ballooned... more »

  • On Sunday Morning

    We kiss to flamenco
    on your kitchen radio

    your eyes open... more »

  • On The Birthday Of A.A. Miller's First Son

    The week you were born
    eighty-some people died in Waco, Texas
    the wrong finale to a long stand-off
    between Branch Davidians and the ATF... more »

  • Phone Call To Cousin Stacy

    You are not Lady Godiva looking
    through her closet for something
    to wear out on the town with your lover
    on New Year's Eve, but the daughter... more »

  • Scars

    I have none to speak of
    nor does my father
    but my mother's body
    is a roadmap of sharp turns... more »

  • Shivering

    It's only when he's not thinking about you
    that you come to him in his dreams. In one
    you are smiling while pressing thumbtacks
    into his erection and telling him everything... more »

  • Talk Talk

    22nd floor where we work along
    the shaft of this concrete tower
    gothic and wearing the ghosts
    of our own skin turned inside out... more »

  • The Aftermath As Written On Scrap Paper

    Good morning: and spit curls the half
    fractured way of a moon grown soft
    to crack like a rotten egg milking
    over this dawn’s slow horizon:... more »

  • The Age Of Reason

    You dream of naked skin
    against the water in us:

    How we turn our faces to the air... more »

  • The Liar

    The sick tongue of your
    emotion’s way flicks against
    the taut flesh of lover-ghosts
    and could-have-beens.... more »

  • The Lightening And Us

    Parked in our driveway, home after
    spending the evening with good friends
    grilling food and drinking beer: I'm staring
    through the windshield at our house lit up... more »

  • The Neural Firings Of The Eternal Starlet

    They love me
    this means I'm beautiful
    because they love me
    I'll always be beautiful... more »

  • There Are Quarters In The Ashtray Next To The Bed

    She is twisted around me in the bedroom's green curtained shadow
    all is limbs, hair, skin.

    There are cars this morning, wheels, as always, sighing on pavement.... more »

  • To Each His Own

    What hurts most is not your forgetting
    that unforgettable tune,
    but the searching, the impossibility,
    of actualized need ruining itself... more »

  • Vesper

    Twilit silence strung between the spent
    light and the darkness gathering... more »

  • Visit To The Old Hockey Player's Home

    They've all got busted noses
    and only a couple of teeth between them
    but still enough to tell the stories of the gloves
    thrown to the ice, the bare-knuckle fights... more »

  • Wedding Poem

    Forget if you will the flowers
    and gowns and suits of music;
    forget the priest or rabbi
    or judge and see only these... more »

  • When The Painters Come

    You once told me poetry
    knocks on your door
    at 6 a.m. and that flags
    are killer when they fly... more »