Thursday, December 31, 2020

new year’s eve sonnet

All my brothers locked down, the sound of lighters,
of bottle openers, bottles popped alone
that foam and spill across the empty wide
expanse of kitchen floors unmopped. A home
in name but not in deed, indeed a jail
that native sons know well, a reservation
held in reserve, revisiting the names
inscribed on birth certificates, a nation
of orphans stumbling in twilight. Is hope
obscene to our imagination, or can
we dream a fiery green without dull smoke
and scour clean our hearts, as we have our hands,
’til double twenty penitence is done,
emerge absolved in twenty twenty one?

Thursday, March 7, 2019


I use to think I was a capitalist first, but now I see that anarchy is ├╝ber alles.

Including the market.

Because slavery of or to or for the self is still slavery;

And "consent" in the moment of lust is not consent.

Thursday, May 24, 2018


City of cats, spackled by shells
firing the red roof-tiles black
chalk outlines the corpse of a city

risen again, swathed in stone and moated
scene of dragon battles staged
where tourists climb the sides of churches

children hang off bas relief fountains
and swarm, ride scooters through squares
dripping sweat and screaming for pasta;

synth sing-a-long at church, jeans
and bad haircuts, long dresses
cross the chest and shuffle behind pews.

Quiet in a vertical garden, sloping
down to the sea where cactus bulwarks
fortress the cliff against the waves

flecked in cinders, they pixelate a peace
that spreads across the Adriatic’s
azure solace, Croatia

maintains, embraced by octopus
split by former comrades, edge that
boomerangs Westward to Europe.