October 30, 2022
My feet always smell. That’s the problem.
My wife says I am running on fumes.
She says she is being asphyxiated.
She says she is choking. I say today
I might die. She says, good.
Are we in need of a poetry of sadness?
I feel no need to seek out fellow martyrs.
Suffering all alone is the poetry.
October 16, 2022
most enlightened woman in all of New York
Recently, I thought I solved the riddle "the sound of one hand clapping" while observing an amputee. I had always thought that the sound of one hand clapping had something to do with redemptive salvation.
October 11, 2022
It’s hard to tell apart the children who
Arrive in the half light and file
Past where I’m sitting,
My legs spread
In a “v” on the floor.
Each child pauses
Long enough to crouch
Down, lean forward, and speak
Just above a whisper
Into the wrinkled pate of my combover:
One word per child: cut, block,
October 3, 2022
The woman wearing a mask of roses is carrying a pork chop.
The dogs the clouds walk are howling ladybirds.
That’s all folks for the pigeons to peck.
They are all objects of adoration – says a visitor.
While the clouds are moving like future automobiles
bold and reckless, the pork chop stinks and feels ashamed.
The woman wearing a veil of roses
gives up her son for adoption.