The Smell of Chrome

The smell of chrome
is strongest near the rust
and where  the rubber
bullets used to be,
more nipples
than weapons,
though to some,
both are the same.

I run my nose close,
not touching,
the brown crusty rings
in the gleam,
and up the side,
where the thin spray
rises to a glorious tail fin.

And smell is strong enough
to carry me
back fifty years.

the smell of chrome image

Posted in Uncategorized | 6 Comments

Panhandler Path



Grass worn low

from overpass

to sewer pipe

good living
Palm Beach County


(inspired by the path not taken by Gary Knelson)

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Cursing in Circles


Curse in circles

square shaped god

judges my cursing

on corners bad ju-ju.


Sun people enough

rain people take,


leave me cursing,

more, more, more

none remains.




I curse in circles

Because god is a square shaped thing

And cursing in the four corners is bad ju-ju

Where the sun people meet

And say there is enough for everyone,


But the cold gray rainy people

Come and take and say, “more.”


And the chocolate kisses

Are wrapped in shiny foil

Which gets in my teeth

And no matter the chocolate

All I taste is metal.


The number of sin is 50

And the cold people take the bean and sin

Back and return it with kisses.


Leaving me to curse in circles

Like my dog not chasing her tail

But looking for exactly the right spot

On my couch.


There is enough for everyone

More, more, more

Until there is none left.



Posted in Uncategorized | 4 Comments

The Currency of Bears

(a word of caution: I have been studying modern poetry through Coursera at the University of Pennsylvania, under the direction of Al Filreis, for the past two years, and have been greatly influenced by Gertrude Stein. Stein wrote dense complicated poetry that explored the internal connections of words. This poem is more or less in her style, but sadly, probably not to her level. Never fear, most of my poetry is still somewhat more conventional than this one.)

There are no bears in the money. There are eagles and lions and tigers, and the queen. The Tigris and the Euphrates whose stripes change ever so slowly. The bear sits in the market place. In an alley café, reading the Financial Times while drinking coffee in the sunshine ever so slowly. The sun shines now on the queen. She glitters like she is, while the Tigris shines like gold and silver and the big cats stalk the thirsty antelope. And the antelope has no money but waits in the ante room, waiting for its anti-life to end. And the tranquilizer dart takes down the cat, and the dear little deer darts away, to live another day, to die another day, for there are no bears by the river. There are no bears in the money which the antelope does not have, or does not carry. My parents’ friend had a Dodge Dart, back when they were tiny and covered with wrinkled sheet metal. Back when I was tiny. The friend is long dead and I am covered with wrinkles. And the Dodge dart is back for a third time around. The bear finishes his croissant, and lumbers off, for a bear will never dart. And he cannot drive except prices down. Prices of pork bellies and timber and silver and gold. He bears no currency only money and there are no bears in the money.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Love as a Bicycle

Its four am

and I have four choices

I could try to sleep

I could wake her

I could ride my own bike

or get up and write a poem.


I am up

because I cannot sleep

and I want to have

a little juice in the tank.


Its hard enough

to keep up on foot

when she is pedaling so fast


I cannot run on empty

so I sit and write

and wait.


She stirs. 


Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Now available!

30 more cover photo

Image | Posted on by | Leave a comment

Eleven Short Words

I wrote twelve hundred lines

Full of big words and self reflective 

Phrasings answering back

To poets from a century

Nay a millenia ago. 


I published it far and wide,

A tribute to my cleverness

And no one read a line.

The girl goes to the shore

And reflective of the hardness 

and temporal-ness of life

She takes a stick 

And writes in the crumbly sand.


Eleven words to be washed away

But a low flying plane

Carried a love sick boy

He leaned out the window 

and snapped the shot.


Soon it spread

Viral, as they say.


My epic forgotten,

Her eleven short words

Remembered for all time:


Come with me 

by the sea

Let us be

Sand again

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment