The Day Bowie Died (Jane Through the Seasons, 2016)
It was one of those Sunday nights
when tiredness is mental
and the calm reaches inside to
massage away the aching.
For distraction I
scrolled through the New Yorker
pausing to read,
“The Beautiful Meaninglessness of David Bowie.”
Who is Bowie?
His name has been floating about
some of my favorite spaces.
“But the main way in which “Blackstar”
is prime Bowie
is in its willingness to embrace nonsense.”
I go to YouTube
No, it is not about the Ghanaian football team.
How come I did not know of Bowie?
It was late and I
logged off Sirvin to hang with Julian of Norwich
guessing not that
would not know Monday.
So when he asks in
“Girl Loves Me,”
“Where the fuck did Monday go?”
did he mean the 3rd day after his 69th birthday?
Losing My Best-Friend to Marriage (Jane through the Seasons, 2013)
After Mrs. Dalloway
We were sisters in light of youth’s desires.
Until marriage, the clown of sorts sliced us apart.
I played Sally to her Clarissa airs and
Conspired To be free of whining brats.
We read Dante in daring melodies.
Refused hats on Long walks, and
Ran in wind-filled corset-less gowns
Of rebellion. Her Peter always present,
With love filled eyes promising wedded bliss.
Then came the day of Richard, with his roses
And his courtly ways to lure my friend away.
She took her trunks and bought whale bones,
Had parties and traded gossip to slay yawns.
And I went in search of a duke to love
The Highline (Literary Manhattan, 2013)
Beyond the tip top of proud clouds, throw your eyes below and watch her pushing a stroller above the yellow taxies, wheat haired boys with lenses to draw the rails. On a wooden bench in the middle of 26th Street and 10th Avenue, sprawl next to me, absorb the sun’s talkative drone, then shoot straight past 11th ave to the marriage of a strip of Atlantic ocean and a blushing blue curve of sky.
Seeking a Stop (Literary Manhattan, 2013)
Return to that woman’s singsong voice;
“Eat your lettuce, darlin’.”
Through the levels of transparency the
skies wrap all in silver. The now
carries lingering soft words, approaching touches that
only teases the hair on the flesh.
“Don’t forget your Jacket, hun.”
I’ve surrendered all weight to a tad bit of grass
in Madison Square Park.
I feel: “Sunscreen, dear’! Don’t mind the stink.”
Here several times.
Tightly vining with there.
Not one. Almost one.
In my chest something knows
and it’s sore for it.
She’s gone with all the balm.
Do you know a beauty unknown, and homely when known?
Twist, untwist, twist. It’s luck.
“Keep your fingers crossed, sweet child.”
Life as I’ve Known it (The Body Attacks Itself, 2011)
An island afloat gravity
of senses kneading desire.
The curses of ears
seek lyrics in
drills of screaming cars,
in dancing glasses.
Skins cocooned in
silk, like stones
burning on bristles
in frozen oils.
Have tongues dance
in others saliva; curl
around putrid flesh
in pure crystal
Through my nostrils,
poisoned air stream
like hypnotized soldiers
unleashed into battle.
I won’t rise with
the morrow’s sun.
Morning Ritual (iMagazine Baruch, 2010)
Sometime today I woke
in a hypnotic wrap,
muttering assurances to some
-one that I’m awake:
An invincible entity
hauled to awareness by my
sleepy imagination. So
I slapped dry slobbered
tinted cheeks, like my
father did so many mornings ago
with his fat animal hands,
making my eyes cross and
draw water from covert wells.
I dragged my tongue through a tour
of the graveolent bowl that is
my mouth, to lure my mind
from a terrorized heart. That
elbowed at my chest in
He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead
Soothes it, to a peaceful thump.
Goodbye (Encounters Magazine, 2010)
On the grounds where the
apple’s heart bloomed, exhibits now,
jars of black tarred tears.