All about calm

i am my mother’s compliments
the heat of her clapping hands
compassion on an infinite vacation

Poetry Is Not Written In Stone

The book of Lord Schist
was on the short list
with his rock-solid verse
that shouldn’ t be missed.

His writing is terse
and it comes with a twist
he gives all those who curse
a slab on the wrist.

Convenience Store

The woman on the cardboard is fading.
Her elven hair has caught dust. A thousand squirrels run from underneath her.
The year is almost over. On the shelves: nylon socks. Now I am present here.
My groin is stationary at this orange table.
The machines are roaring. The microwave.
Coffee. The blinds. The cold air.
Freshener gets sprayed here with some frequency.

Oh the wonder of subjectivity!

Parasite subdivide erudite
blundering souls with no rewards

the stillness of aging!

The rocky hills and mountains, like teeth outside of me
the hum of household machines
and me, still there, faithful to the secret
of being the present person who sat
there and felt that

Portrait with a little pain

The constant buzzer of pain
that ugly fleeting empire
sending out its cavalry

to agitate my nerve tissue, to sabotage
every sound, every smell, every taste
and make me want to be replaced

but fail.


The tiny sheepdog was very experienced, but the flock panicked and he died in the wool.

The Making of a Misanthrope

They don’t believe me, and they split

One they goes on and on repeating it

The other they says, spitefully, cope!

I despise them, and become a misanthrope



rice and beans
sprouts and greens
water and love
life itself – is enough


Mightless words ! Vehicles of nothing
flapping their wings (in pain), clacking their beaks,
barking to a dying possum,

Far away

The cattle is furrier
The mountains are sharper
The birds cry louder
The houses are homelier
And the women


I told her over tapas
That I have two papas

between olives and anschovis
Oh, well, c’est la vie