Wednesday, November 7, 2012


     first snow--
     sunken jack o' lanterns saying
           nothing at all

Wednesday, September 19, 2012


     Is it anything more,
     than a shepherd dog hanging
     from a car door window?
     Another August kissed
     by September.


     cloud cover—
       a golden bumblebee
          slightly less so


     evening meditation the longest plant shadow snapping at the stem

Friday, September 14, 2012


          the passing night—
       my memories
             where clouds once were

Thursday, September 6, 2012


     end of meditation—
     a centipede

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Thursday, July 7, 2011


     Emancipation Day—   
     a majority of tree seeds glide
     through the rusted fence


     wounded clouds at sunset underneath everything a light

Friday, April 22, 2011


     Walking home,
     a flustered heart for what
     I feel I have to change;
     busted by an April wind
     slapping down upon it all.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

Series: Some of my Time (Given to the Wind)

Far Brooklyn moon,
couched in all our dirt,
tell it again
how there never was
any path for me to lose.

                               pursuing friends—
                               a banana peel swaddling
                               the sidewalk tree

April showers—
a fjord of rain water
guts the subway track

                               One by one,
                               I dismantle those
                               I've yet to even touch.
                               Always again
                               these prayer beads grow loose.                        

day moon—
jazz drum from
the academy window

                               late evening train—
                               a theatre student
                               explaining herself

Dismiss always
the need for anyone;
until then
at the city rim
lights pushing lights.

                                       scything away
                               from light polution—
                                   the rising half of moon

morning after rain—
a capsized june bug
in the flower box

                               Because of distance,
                               I but drift about you always
                               from all sides;
                               a Pyrrhic victory: to assign time
                               for beautiful things.

summer roof meditation—
a beer can trolling
in the darkness

                               shaky subway car—
                               everyone nodding
                               to my headphones

A phoenix bird for each of us
these two falling stars,
boring holes
through New York night
and the coming unknown.

                               warmest evening wind—
                               a slow murmur populates
                               my earbuds

nowhere burning
a retna stain—
the moon chopped in two

                               Our electric storm,
                               a lightning rose sprayed
                               from empty sky;
                               on the hindmost plane
                               there is nowhere to run.

city bus prophesy—
"wait for light
then open door"

                               greasy business—
                               a majong match
                               in the auto yard

Suppose it's alright
to be more than okay;
far off,
six fingers of sun fishing
through nimbus cloud.

                               evening train—
                               the silver hand rail becomes
                               her silver balloon

summer's end—
rooftop pipe steam
given to the wind

Monday, February 5, 2007

Series: In New York

for Sophia

grey winter noon—
from inside his moving truck
faint church bells

                                  overcast bus trip—
                               he rubs her neck
                                     from across the aisle

in the looseness
  of this window—
a shakier us

                               The double world
                               of means to me
                               and means to you;
                               webs of snowdrop tangle
                               past the bus window.

local sushi bar—
he figures the Japanese
of a wall-hung haiku

                               all that's left
                               in the prize machine—
                               an empty pack of smokes

heating-up car—
the radio marquee
advertises for itself

                                 run-down minimart—
                               beer flags writhing
                                        with it all

what moves beneath
works to favor hope;
for one year's time
I have slept alone.

                                   uptown dining—
                               double the price
                                         for nothing

midtown thrift shop—
my only pick of shoes
on a customer's feet

                               Chinese supermarket—
                               my spring water spills
                                 onto leaking water

ground zero—
'post no bills' by
the building to be

                               The closer I come,
                               the farther it crawls
                               inside to die;
                               from behind, a man
                               barking his own 9/11.

beneath the el—
Arab music blaring
through a sunroof

                               midnight express—
                               two teens brag
                               about fighting a cop

late to the Met—
we've only time
for a short snack

                               Central Park in seconds—
                                 a bug on the map

Dare say I carry my bones
so far from home...
how many moments
could I put between
the el and this moon?

                               taming the bull—
                               her perfect dismount
                               to Wall Street

Blood Alley—
above, a metal ladder

                               sardine can subway—
                               an old head tells how
                               it used to be

midwinter's noon—
a pale leaf crosses
the intersection

                               What but raindrops
                               do I have to offer
                               in lended hand?
                               The uptown winter breeze
                               forgets me where I stand.

Manhattan sunset—
'everything hurts' tagged
on the pharmacy wall

                               leaving Manhattan—
                               clustered pigeons circling
                               a steel crane

Long ago
I kept a dream, of pushing
through the past;
plastered to the window,
a eucharist of moon.

                               early evening depot—
                               loose caution tape
                               trembling on the ground

*Blood Alley is a small, curved backstreet in Chinatown where supposedly the old tongs, or gangs, would bring victims to be killed.