Noting

Empty submission on death arrived
writer’s desk at noon

Working quiet long hours to fill it
it should be expected soon

Entries harnessed dispatched flesh
the height of breath commands

came up to slum piled gay ash
in want of familiar gray hands

Screamed at Pushkin scolding Hughes
gave-up on own outlaw’s joke

when to play-up the dead writers to
for through who I felt that I spoke

Detainees

Elastic laments stretched
thick as
guardians,
shelter for the bombed,
wound mess
shuffling streetside
in
Sana’a-Chicago-favelas,

subbing Sahara
where Wolf’s
voice sucked Memphis sweet
and preserved,

jarring amber molasses
hobbled,
dimples
of the smiling, of
the wounded,
unshaven grimace.

Pulled-in, parked
against the cantor’s
alone,
bifurcated lung,

the one from
the next town
over, a
red freighted rig,
fecund in yield in

issues of political economy
sub-texting
aligned margins
unpublished,
corpus
of hand-wrung epodes

by New School emigre
dropout
collectives, non-membered, no
time for the welt
of Herr
Heidegger’s being.

In summertime frequencies,
Avenue A, Yiddish
productions of Kazan’s
Streetcar, starring

the great Tomashevsky, in
a delicatessen of
a role (Stella Kowalski).

Soupy coffee after
by the brickled joint
ovens, donning cloaks
of sacrifice, toasted over

an iron-mesh,
corner-trash-can and some
Yucatan
gourmets boiling
a found IRA
potato,

stretching out their good
pitching arms,
conniving,

pebbles to a nail
of the seductive highway

Satan, honoring the earnest,
irrefutable,

onset of Eid.

Terry Cloth

My view of the old Ratner’s sign, where
it once went, now going when gone. Three

stories up flat asphalt sits as I did sit,
on parking lot planes, a blue-ok,

Florida, struggling, writing poems around
flies in my poems.

Each every-holiday stoked, about, tiny
pools the clear juvenile (vision) exhaust

bent eastward-south at fisher’s island-
ferry, lifted, explanations of self

its heavy carriage, its heavy remorse,
an askew dance overlooking

a risen sky-line.