selected past writing at 42opus
Where you cut your hand upon entering.
Where the affable proprietor warns you away from the saw.
Where the dog and the cat play beneath the table,
between your many legs.
Where the woman has painted her black hair gray.
26 June 2009 | poetry
The deer come out in the evening.
God bless them for not judging me,
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
and make strange noises at them—
if language can be a kind of crying.
26 June 2008 | poetry
Feet sinking in the Wal-Mart parking lot, walls thick and soft
as mattresses crawling up. Windproof, soundproof, dizzy
from the world buzzing around, hummingbirds hovering
to see how much sweetness they can get before the cup…
2 September 2003 | poetry
It is evening and the dark climbs through the window, sits down beside us on the couch, demands the remote control. We curl our legs together, socks to socks, my hand pressed on your lower belly. "What if you suddenly stopped breathing," I say, imagining your death, the funeral, the useless black shoes. I smile, bury my nose in your dirty dark hair.
I'm stopped by the slow guillotine of the grade
Crossing—three diesels dragging gear north to Fort Drum
Not just tanks, & Fighting Bradleys, & armored cars
But oil transports, hospital trucks, even grain hoppers:
Everything we need to fight the long war in a foreign land.
19 April 2007 | poetry