Through the Dark

my mouth makes a noise:
     is it a cat?
     a child?
it creeps through a graveyard
its tongue pulling it along
     the great vacancy
     behind it
     a new kind of oblivion for the dead:

in mouth there is no rot
no bones to be dried
nothing ostentatious
even breath and eating
are from some other place

and it pulls itself along
swallowing nothing
soul's antithesis
leaving nothing
but tracks
an occasional belch
and a faint noise of invisible wheels

from Oedipus' First Lover (2009)

Outside of the Bank

in the financial district      the neglected cardiologist
count the prostitutes

the executive strip club      tears too early to cry
count the prostitutes

the sterling reputation of the corner bank  
the empty middle of gold coins

the last lava shake at pompeii=s last coffeehouse
you could see from the aquarium room on the top floor of your greed
where cattle graze on their passports and entire armies are invented
where memories of trojan air raid sirens 
are the punch lines of broken condom jokes
and the men in blind grey suits     fight on their knees 
with cardboard swords and shields of woven rubber bands
where death is conceptual and sexy
and down several stories    they=ve thrown images of you
like you=d throw clay onto a wheel
and dressed the product in a bright red miniskirt
and a sign that says eat at standard oil
then pretend to give it their hearts    and yours
and give it legionary songs to be played
by quaint belching rodents inside sousaphones
and aim for the gut      it=s the biggest target

your eyes      your living room      your stuffed toy self
your memories of canyon de chelly lascaux and your childhood peter pan
your stray stuffed heart      pounding within the cotton batting
	don’t sell out
	please    world    
	don’t sell out

Subdigm

subdigm the domivert paranant

from Oedipus' First Lover (2009)

1916

three a m 
the czar becomes aware that there are other russians
and of the moon     the memory of the sun
the memory of stars like insects in a field of dark wheat
he goes to the window     the stars are still there

far off in another wing of the palace 
he hears someone playing a violin
he relaxes     goes back     lies down
he didn’t know his heart was that high pitched
that it held in it the songs of peasants and children
he flexes his hand     getting his cavalry ready
he rolls onto his other side goes back to sleep

from Oedipus' First Lover (2009)

Advice Column

suppose you’ve been valentine’s day for a week
looking for sunrise through the spaces
between the black bars on a bank computer form
looking for months every day for a home for news
or at least what’s rumored to be news

do it with a blanket
better than a blank bank form

do it with the smile of a laugh
better than an information dump truck

your fingers dance nude in cyberspace
even if their partners are words and numbers

don’t be part of a formal agreement
be love
be love
people are waiting for you

from Oedipus' First Lover (2009)

The Eyes of the City

the eyes of the city
are not the windows
you pass on your way to the subway

the eyes of the city dwell
brightly in their own thoughts
thousands of them    all around you

you could love them
they could love you
love you without even knowing it
love you who are there with them
you    too
the eyes of the city 

The Hangman's Beautiful Children

fishing for muses     here on the subway platform
for the hangman’s beautiful children
full of wheel sharp of ankle
loose of blouse strap long of boot
and in her hands
tissue paper origami crane

bright of clothing even if her clothing’s black
eye shadow with eye flash bright within it
sinuous deep animal stride
even in the routes of his fingertips
as they cross the keyboard of a laptop
screen depth of light that can shut off in an instant

o hangman     how you envy your children
how you’d reverse polarity so that they’d
be born as dead as you’ve made yourself
how you’d bind the leather of your heart
tightly over the flesh of theirs
how you’d sew it cold without sweating

	don’t you know
	that unbound hearts beat faster
	than yours does?

		don’t you know
		they know the games of flight
		that birds in love make?

from Yew Nork (2014)

The Entranceway

the potatoes roll in through the doorway in a line
roll not walk    not quite balanced
because they’re not symmetrical 
but they’ve found out they make fries here
and they can’t stand not missing the action

the line extends past sight
going back to what was once defined as a farm
it’s rush hour    they’re going
as fast as raw potatoes can wobble
the cook’s wrists ache in anticipation
the deep fryer bubbles like a fulfilled stomach
the music roils hotly    in their heads
they dream they can dance to it
and that wealth will come to them
when they’re cooked gold and toasty

from Some Coffeehouse Poems (2022)

Sorrow Post -Trump

maybe tomorrow
the four solar appearances we’ve missed
will appear in the same sky
in the same hour

maybe tears
will become rain again

the hours you spent hurt    crunched
can fold in time to memory
with only the pain    of a cut hand
in memory to remind you

the skin of a scar is light and silvery
a road to a new firmament
where the stars show silvery and bright
each star    itself    a sun

from Trump Tics (2020)

After the Election (2028)

after the plague had passed
halloween was over

the suits of disease walked empty
no survivors wanted to fill them

streets no longer grew mad cars
and the seeds of abandoned concrete began to sprout

    see that dog?
    he’s enjoying the excitement of a walk
    so full of scents of mystery

    who owned this car?
    why are all these people so happy?
    the seeds of concrete finally erupt as sculpture
    and it’s up to dogs to figure out
   which survivor planted which one

A version of this poem appeared in Trump Tics (2020)

Style

sometimes his style of communication
gets in the way

when he says he wants to kill you
you know
you have to interpret that yourself

from Trump Tics (2020)

Avoiding Being Overheard

the one waits at a table by the far wall
looking at nothing for at least ten minutes
finally the other one comes in
nods greeting    gets coffee    sits down
and they start talking in short sentences
in a language i think i’ve never heard
i ignore them then start to understand them
it’s english    all the words backwards

the sun is out it’s gonna be hot
all four women at the table next to mine
are young energetic and excited about something
that’s lively enough to be gone tomorrow
i can’t catch exactly what they’re talking about 
the dictator has been in power for three years
the two by the wall talk slowly and sparingly
even language can creep away

from Trump Tics (2020)

Plumbing's Revenge

i must have looked manic
searching    all over the castle
for the manuscript that held captive
the last words of count dracula

i knew they were mine to find
even in the dimness of night
because the ooze of centuries can’t take away
the phrases everyone needs to know

trump looked for his most meaningful phrases
all over the white house    mar a lago
the former environs of everyone he’d ruined
the throbbing ecstatic insides of his cellphone
the slimy grit of his intestinal mind
but he couldn’t find them at all
and decided they must have been abducted

but they still clung around
more real than the statement of a fictional vampire
bright day or dim night
in the pipes leading from his golden toilet
to the soft muddle of his dismal mind
and back again    flushed    over and over

from Trump Tics (2020)

The Dictator's Radio

the coffin that sleep contained
a car buzzes by like its eyes are closed

i remember the obvious
i hear something like a broadcast voice
i remember the dream last night
that told me to wake up
that predicted this morning in terrifying clarity

my eyes ache from the shrill light of dawn

    eyes drift down the sidewalk over
    paper cups of coffee    let’s hope
    that bloodshot eyes will remember themselves

    the dictator’s radio hangs from your ears

    each step cold    as if made in ice water
    your shoes coffins    your destination frozen

from Trump Tics (2020)

Donald's Pot Luck

donald trump
took a bag of poisoned potato chips
to the potluck

the bottoms of his shoes
sucked all the colors out of the carpet
making it as white
as a k k k hood

meanwhile his minions
added a layer of nazi-made bricks
to the walls of the house

now that i’m here he pronounced
this event is yuge
everybody is happy

but he was the only one there
because everyone else had fled
as the bricks leaned inward
and even the roof
he’d held up with hot air
started to collapse

from Trump Tics (2020)

Astronomer of Truth

it comes every day
the inexact night
when the stars cluster more approximately
than the constellations they taught you to see

other days you think you remember
as so much different from this one
and the dog down the street should have told you
but someone    maybe him
has been moving his bones around
to where that future won’t find them

your teachers should have told you
your apple should have told you
the flute that leads the dawn should have told you

the stars themselves should have told you
they’re all liars    and now you’re looking at them
wondering what they have to teach you next

from Trump Tics (2020)

Plea

almost toxic
the kind of stuff taxis roll by
my lawn is covered in make believe right now

statue leans meaningfully
on her hand as trucks roll past her

tires that have been everywhere
lend scent to a dog’s sense of meaning

    in the middle of all this there’s a dictator
    who is so evil and powerful that he cannot
    be taken as anything but literal
    he lives in a mansion three thousand miles from here
    but even his grin affects everything
        to deny this is to chance
        shortening your life
        and everyone else’s 
        by decades

from Trump Tics (2020)

Outside the Gas Station

last night i dreamt
that i was leaning up against a gas station wall
the stars spun themselves into a pattern
that formed the skeleton of piltdown man

i felt all of my energy    driven out of my veins
like blood seeking refuge in nothingness

the new sky stood almost fictional
like the moment between pulses 
when you feel the possibility of death

    bones    even bones that never existed
    even bones described as ancestral and sacred
    by the mouth of a petty dictator
    the stars seemed dried as dessicated wood
    i wonder if my very own bones still glisten
    if the world still pumps alive outside of sleep

from Trump Tics (2020)

His Welcoming Smile

when the fat dictator smiles
why do we all feel like skeletons
gathered around a desolate fire
that will gradually dry
the last of life from us?

from Trump Tics (2020)

Catullus Thinks of Donald Trump

"Spaniards/ use their morning urine/ for tooth wash." -- Catullus

it doesn’t bother me at all
that you clean your teeth
with piss as orange as your hair

    rome is a republic

clodia right now sits watching the street
waiting for me
by a window on the second floor of her husband’s mansion
she does not think of you

    rome is a republic

here    settled in my favorite seat
in an outdoor theater watching an awful play
about gods i barely believe in
i do not believe in you either
o one of puffy eyes and hair of rotted straw
that would shame a wild animal
or even a barbarian    the true order of things
i do believe in that   precludes you
who would turn crowds mindless enough to riot
before your games and after you came to power
who think that the world is made for yourself
while even my loves    all of them
do not think it is made for me

so here i am    watching some idiot on the theatre floor
instead of writing love poems to my clodia
she who may be the one who murders me
before i’m thirty    before the name caesar
is anything but a family name
before anyone with orange skin and hair
of a texture that almost defines disease
seeks by his presence to defame the name
of anyone from any old roman family

    rome is a republic

from Trump Tics (2020)

Within Sight

i wonder how to keep alive
in political fogs like this

try the bright eyes
within clouds

you need to remember
your own bright eyes

that they can live like fire in grief
for you to be able to see

from Trump Tics (2020)

The Election of Death

how could you even
pretend you had life on your mind
when you voted for this guy?

atmosphere that is deep and inscrutable 
humidity of your own anger
your own tears

from Trump Tics (2020)

Post-Election Fog 2024

windows blindfolded
waiting for the execution

even the sky is closed in fog

the music on the radio
is turned so low
that no notes can get through

there was an election
light lost
a ball of dead lead
sits unsighted
where there used to be sun

A version of this poem appeared in Trump Tics (2020)

Exchange

last night barry i saw you
walk past the glass walls of the diner
and in through the door as i talked with my boss
who excused himself as you and i 
recognized each other

you still looked twenty-three
after these thirty-seven years
yellow shirt     brown jacket
cowboy hat and the hair still almost yellow
and delicate where it was bound in a ponytail

you nodded     got a coffee
sat at the table where the boss had sat
you were still twenty-three
clear skin clean eyes robust self-assurance
i was sixty and imagined myself desiccated

i couldn’t imagine what to say to you
we used to talk for hours together
you sprawled and set your legs parallel to the table
played with your mustache and took another sip
been years     you said

here i was at the edge of old age and
what had i really accomplished since i was young?
here you were     still the age you were when we met
all future     all coolness     all good humor knowing that the gods
still held you as their darling

what could i say to you?     what could you say to me?
i finished my coffee and said i was due elsewhere
over due really     and you nodded and put your hat on the table
i said good to see you then walked out the door
you were still at the table     snow crunched under my feet







from Yew Nork (2014)

Epaulet

i caught sight and was on my way
the building looked familiar appearing on doors and guys
zones of affluence and poverty     say
my old neighborhood never looked so prosperous

restaurant at then     too
store across the valley looking small crowds in their twenties
it’s no longer the house of fire i remember
laundromat and a small motel asleep calling it lunch

	my consciousness is made up of storefronts
	i go to a different one every night     the haze
	seems static that way     i like to stay there
	i stay on the same block for the rest of my life
	buses go by about three blocks from here
	my passport crawls     up my sleeve to my shoulder

from Yew Nork (2014)