Pitted Mirrors

Pitted Mirrors

In the shadow of banks
and humid stars
she serves a tumorous magic.
Lives in a country
I will discard.

Gives birth to good soldiers
like good girls do.
Then sends postcards
to the dead.

Labors in sour purpose.
Just the law
of a rancorous nation

Whose pitted mirrors
reflect the truth:
A rash of the soul
her immediate wound.

Crude rumors
beg her reason.
The story of Helen
imparts my own.



Andy Martin’s America Letter

I’ll be reading this and more at POETS Speak Loud, McGeary’s in Albany this monday, 10/27 7pm. . . . .

Andy Martin’s America Letter

Christ! Even the Aussies
know I’m fucked up.
Lagging behind the prattle
of serious people and a
bowlegged girl. Reading
Andy Martin’s America letter
about a similar girl. Exotically nameless.
A triumph of nature. Her skin the shine
of lotto balls. Who somewhere,
in the throes of winsome,
stands plural, w/o air.

Rife w/pills and exposition,
Andy goes on to say
that long after Christ
took one for the team,
Only the Army
still guarantees jobs.

Genetically prone to tangents
and obviously buzzing on the honey-slides
we sold in college,
He’s now insisting
I’m not a truth-seeker at all,
but an investor in camouflage
and see-thru panties.

“Bite me, pal,” I snarl under
my cranky breath. But the bowlegged girl
hears me. Turns around. Stops abruptly.
Tells me to go fuck myself
then reconvenes her labored gait.

I stop to let her get
a block or two ahead
and turn my attention
back to Andy Martin’s America.

Where no-meat dreams
reflect our collective resignation.
“If flies are karmic,” he scrolls
“we’d best get used to shit.”

But he’s errant in his logic.
Every soldier’s a fugitive
when the meat’s all gone.
And the only substitute for corporate order
is the foment of the mob.

our sons

Our Sons

My next purchase
is a semi-automatic.
Something inexpensive
like a Yugo Pap Rifle.
Thirty rounds
for under six-hundred.

Real time gunners
don’t harbor remorse.
And our sons are
a bit more bat-shit.
Our sons
a bit more spoiled.


two new poems

Crows Gathering Against the Grey Sky

I guess I am
the old fuck
at the dark end
of the bar.
Mourning the day
Polly Bergen died
and a time when the cuckoo
didn’t sound so hard.

I don’t recall
Patty Duke
being so smart and
so . . .hot.
Like she knew the answers
before I asked.
A Brooklyn Buddha
in pumps and a bob.

The crows are gathering
against the grey sky and
I’ll have another double.
They dropped her
after four seasons,
and the world has never
been the same.



The Dwarf of Morpheus
pulled up alongside me
at the light.

At first,
I couldn’t see the little bastard.
But I heard his deathless cackle
like cronyism, like lightening loosed
upon dry land.

“The callous heart loves harshly,”
the craggy eyes midget
conveyed like Tom Waits.

I tried to pretend
I didn’t hear him.
But he must be sitting
on yellow phone books
‘Cos now we’re almost
eye to eye.
So there was no going back.
As long
as the light
was red
I had to engage him.

“I don’t have any money.”
I said, hoping to deter him
until the green,
when I could floor it
and leave him his highway.

“I got your money.” he said,
though he didn’t look like
a banker or a senator.
He was dustier than that,
w/an amber ash
falling from his shoulders.

It was, undoubtedly,
the longest light in town.
And I awaited its epoch to pass
like I waited for world peace:
naively, though intently.

“Ain’t gonna be no world peace,”
he laughed like an all consuming fire.
And I knew he was right.
And I knew he could read my mind
and tell where I was last Tuesday.

But I couldn’t let him
see me sweat, this bantam
of dreary cognizance.
I couldn’t let him see
my right foot had gone numb
and I couldn’t feel the gas.

“All this will pass
and it won’t miss you,”
he mocked, as if I were
the outcast ancestor
written off the family charter.

“On the day after doomsday
we’ll all eat meat,” I said,
knocking him down a peg.
Beating him at
his own prophecy game
and tearing off at the light.