The Friday night-late
shopper, how she overlooked

inspired little imaginings.

It was the limp,
the weight of it,

and the coming commute

as an already
injured part of my heart.

Tom may not have been
as a deaf door,

squealin’ out elfin
exclamations, waylaid

inside his gear.

A flower Saint Therese
gave is who he is,

a screech about Elvis,
petaling plasticine wares.

Electric, shook quackery
always froth at spout.

Quotes quoted, or some
bird food mal-appropriated.

He, El, did this
routine discovery

undercover, of leather,
and shade.

Russian is a garden
of suicide’s sound,

the half-Bulgarian children
eventually speak

with unaffected
influence, requesting

nothing more than games:

Tenzen offers blessedness
for thanksgiving

turkeys, and the excited
innocence of seeing

a Jew as a Jew.

Tenzen is weary
of malignant Chinese

tracking, so we’ll all
be viewed to be—animal.

The Last American

Baby, please don’t go…

Franklin was from St. Vincent.
He may still be, but the one week
I understood his accent is not.

Baby, please don’t go…

Buford would stray in from Brooklyn.
He would fly, he flew, into my soundscape
now and then, calling me by my
grandfather’s nickname, whom
he never met, he once strayed
away, out from Brooklyn, too.

Baby, please don’t go down to New Orleans..

The octogenarian anonymity,
worked in sales, worked in Beirut.
We shared a loss for the 1948
film-“Portrait of Jennie”, shared
Jennifer Jones. I caught it on public
television, one friday night, to him
it was a wonderful afternoon–out
of the house.

Girl, I love you so…

Mark Jupiter, what in the hell to tell?
The fresh cuts on his hands, on
his head, put a deeper impression
into me than all of his limber semantics.

Baby, please don’t go.


What an impulse is to utter arithmetic
contracted signs sub-
contracted in kind

Lucked onto you out of line at the bank
just-fine I knew him
to talk like this