h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s





Christopher Columbus woke 

with a start and entered the galley
like a fistfight. Houses, he announced.

Houses, clad in termite tents, advance

across deserts in innumerable rows
of brick and embittered bedlam.

Soon after mutiny revoked

his freedom, his dream died feverishly
in the hearts of Genoese contractors,

whose chivalry left them coatless

after every rainstorm, and the wilds
of America remained a theme

park dedicated to ghost stories.

TIC-TAC-TOE, 1541.

Pizarro played pianissimo 
            in a room of his making;

not of gold nor silver nor
            brass but red, all red,

and in it he confessed
            his miseries with an “X.”

............... EXTINCTION DAYS, 1873.

Bison skull, seven standing men tall. 

Pyramid crushed to powder, the lethargic
            dust of legacy.

Winter: quavering fields of damp wheat, dull
            breath eases the embers.

Skins sleep on the backs of the sleeping.

The ground Gnostic in its grace; every grain
            a rune for rescindment.


Winter’s cognitive attic leaves trees like wishbones. 

They wince when the wind winds up along these lonely stretches
of calico wilderness.

Edison is our only confirmation saint.

Westinghouse watches Lake Erie burn.

Part of a paint factory has foundered and the river whose water
supplied its pipes has ignited into a serpentine lash.

A bell rings out for baptisms.

Another is rung for the baptized.

A third announces a moment of silence for all those who chose
such a time to profess their flameproof faith.

If you listen closely you can hear their ashes ask the wind for

Rumor is a long-dead curse: dismissed by reason, reinvented by
popular demand.

We fall asleep by the radio to dream of the air raids like our fathers
before us.

Remembrance is the only act of significance.

We break like rubber bands into the night.


The body of New Jersey is sleepy.
The sky of New Jersey is imitation crocodile.
The people of New Jersey hold sunburn

by its delicate hand. They say grace
in the consequent blue light of their television sets.
In the morning sometimes a sparrow

arrives at a window to ask for a dram of salt.
Politeness in such a situation is absurd
but bad manners won’t do come celestial tea-time.

Right then the people of New Jersey listen
to the body of New Jersey underneath the sky
of New Jersey. No longer can they ignore the gin

mills smoldering like an East European drama.
No longer can they vigorously rake leaves
in the wakes of their hand-me-down trees.

They weep openly in their backyards, beneath
their smokestacks and overpasses, all sweetly
candid under the fast sorrow of the tax collector’s case.

The air is empty, as it always is. The air that has no
voice though we bully it with flight and forest fires.
At the television’s supper table we are still at odds

with the sparrow. The sparrow, who sings, and we,
who sing, and the supper, from its microwave,
that sings. We sing and sing and soon forget.


We are never alone.

We can’t smoke

these ghosts out.

They are in our homes

and can’t be broomed

to better haunts.

We are falling.

We are all falling.



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