Staten Island Ferry

A bus on water Nothing classy Bare, wide, plastic seats The grim colors dulled By rain on leather And snow on nylon Grimaces and odd Downcast eyes Not a vessel but vein A slow steady artery Depositing gray, working class stares On Whitehall And slides between shores A yoked burden December 16, 2000 Share on FacebookTweet Read More

wd40 – a sonnet of mechanics

you oil the joints of my legs with your strong hands you rotate my hips into alignment roughly the creaking of my pelvis under you commands your constant pressure, your voice caresses gruffly unused untried this chassis was long neglected a show piece rarely driven, me parked and rusting my engine showing no wear, my tires treaded I wanted a man who would be ever lusting you keyed me a kiss that started to filtrate sputtering and gasping and ardently... Read More

sonnet for wd, #2

you on the phone take direct routes you in the ether mail wordings gilded feathers, quilled umlauts changes my singular endings no plans for what I am feeling written in your hand impatient truths like breaths you have been stealing we fear the joy, the contentment here I let go first, admitted in voice, in deed, in hearty need with you, with you, this submitted joy with the WORD we both still bleed have we avoided this enough to say we are falling... Read More

Conversation

You’re the person Whom I’ve had A million semi-silent Discussions with At 4 am, early afternoons And in prosaic bars as Other eyes hands mouths Try to entice a part of me That you only you have reached In such a small part of time Attached to the years of talking Your half of the conversation showed up now Fully ready for more for me And I entirely for you October 19, 2000 Share on FacebookTweet Read More

The Lord of the Rings

Homily to Mr. Jackson… It’s Tuesday night, 11:30 pm and we are in line at Loews. “Frodo”, “Shire”, “Nazgul”, “Gandalf” and veritable litany is heard in the air. Unruly pilgrims at the gates, the theater uncomfortably warm, suspicion and envy snake around the double-backed line. People snap at each other like reptiles fighting for position on a seaside rock. Disbelief that tonight is actually... Read More

3 A.M. on Avenue A

Tap, click, snap of my boots on the sidewalk Did it rain or is that dew reflecting lights pools of neon on the street mist and spray hangs low along the gutter lazy steam puffs from manholes and grates The moon dances in and out of purple clouds Such a clever dancer, with her purple fans on the stage of inky velvet and black-lit sky Night makes a gown of blackness out of rags Bag ladies become glamorous in shadows and darkness Queens of the night,... Read More

Widow’s Wish

Sitting in a pink slip on a windowsill, a widow, with flowing dark hair and slim grins, looks at sashaying fishtails and blush lips of local party girls. Night winds bring aromas of body and bloom. Read More Share on FacebookTweet Read More

Park Life

Dickens strikes again: It was the best of times; it was the worst of times A man on a raft, adrift on a sea of grass The loneliness, waiting, hungry for anthacus and arches The ancient Roman circus in his mind blooms like lips Red, full, wet and opening to spew violence and lust Teeth a textured amphitheater, cobblestones in rough circles The tongue leads like a hole in the wall of trees Breathing furious vengeance and small truths A sword, ever ready... Read More

Ricci Albenda Opening at the MOMA

Ricci Albenda Opening at the MOMA Projects 74 November 16, 2001 – January 22, 2002 Opening Night – November 15, 2001 Ricci Albenda’s installation at the MOMA for Projects 74 struck me as inclusive, minimalist and disorienting, with the basic aspects of childhood wonder in spatial discovery. Descending to the mezzanine, I unknowingly stared directly at his trompe d’oelil, a skilled distortion of space, and proceeded to walk... Read More

Queens

The steam feels good A hot wet kiss from The city It smells of dirty socks, Rotting grass and cabbage soup Overboiled Mush in your mouth Poor comfort food A blown kiss as cold as Dead lips Wriggles between folds and seams Down to the skin And penetrates Like dead fingers Into bone And my back aches As it cramps and curls Upon itself A skeletal worm Poked by cold hands My eyes, tearing, Watch the trains On the EL And see glimmers of stars Between the... Read More