Tuesday, June 12, 2012


How charisma filled up your living room,

and the sunlight beamed

through cracked pottery

from the ceiling,


How the locomotive died

on its way to the unveiling

of your new placenta

at the whitney,

next to the fried egg on platter.


How the days went by like moist arrows,

and the dawn nearly froze

in the wake of your eyes.


How i greeted the audience,

and fed them your program,

how i laughed at your stowaway manners,

how  i metered the rhyme that came out  of you

like Oklahoma dust,

how i staged your departure

in  a hallway of mirrors.


How charisma filled up

the webbing of your bed,

how i pleaded to pause

by your manifold breathing,

how you turned up the volume

and resisted the meeting,

how you authored your memories on the ceiling,

and signed my letters

with the blood of a hamster,

how precise, how clear

you were then,

how charisma filled up your penthouse,

and let the day begin.

To My Son – Still Arriving

The time is almost

when we will touch

when you will first

set eyes upon the open air.


The time is almost

when you will come

on a great swelling tide

to this room,

here by the goldfish

and the scattered letters,

to this room

its walls

its dispositions.


The time is almost

when the separate sea of your flesh

will meet with those who

conspired to make you.


The time is almost,

spring teases at the window and

earth is open to your anticipated