* Alchemy Farmhouse *

Last Night
March 18, 2008, 10:57 am
Filed under: poetry

We buried you by

St. Patrick’s Day moonlight,

one with a shovel

one with a pitchfork,

the flashlight on the ground.

The churchbells next door

rang out at eight as we began,

and I cried because they were the last

of the day that was your last.

In each and every armful of earth

more grief seeped out

more grief built up–

as if the release signaled the need

to manufacture more.

I could hear the water in the pond

–it was the first time I had ever noticed it from that spot.

I looked to be sure you

would face the moon–

I knew it would move,

but I wanted you where it was tonight,

when I layed down with you

under a blanket

under your tree

under our March sky,

bloody in the truck bed.

We buried you tonight,

by three-quarter moonlight.


Poems from the city
March 7, 2008, 8:19 am
Filed under: poetry


grey light

blue sky

through wrought iron

window panes

the New York

Public Library echoes

with  a

hundred thousand feet

all treading

the same city’s water

all waiting for

the same spell to break.

Hallways & Jamaicans

With a lantern

big enough for

an opera house,

this hallway

lights the way for

the Asian man

in student’s clothes

the Slavic woman

in the green coat

two men with peppered hair

(the lantern glinting off their gilded  eyeglasses each)

and the security guard

who has just made me vacate

the stairs and move to this

glorious marble bench beneath

the bust of John M carrere.

I wanted to smear the island honey out of the corners

of her words

with wintry, thirsting fingers.

Did she ever look to her childhood shores

and know someday that she

would guard this grand space

in the grandest of places?

Waiting, @ 40th & 8th 

people walk by

all waiting for a train

One says “I love you”

another spat to the right

one holds a baby

another wrestles with

unbalanced steps

–a childhood affliction, a sewer grate incident, an act of God?

To the left huddle a sampling

all clad in crayon-colored sneakers

walking past with samba sounds

and  hooded  parkas more suited

to a lone taiga

than this underground waiting room

And a new woman

sits where the toddler just peed  his pants

–too soon for me to warn her.

Artists with portfolios, old men with plastic bags

a young boy with a measuring tape and soccer shoes.

they carry all the parts that make them whole,

the things you can’t make up.

The human story

Any one of them could be

someone I’ve known

any one of them could be

someone I will know

share bllood, share breath, share bourbon with

in this life

or another.

Did I go to kindergarten with you?

Will my son kiss your daughter’s lips

one day when they are conceived and grown as we?

Will I ever see you tear

down your Chinese screen of

train pretense?

Morgan Freeman with a limp just passed

and Dylan Thomas layed across

the bench one night

just before he broke a bottle

to let lennon

come sliding out into the city.

Was it fate that by dropping

my bottle cap just now,

I am destined to embody the

germs of all who have drank from this place

before I?

That when I screwed it

back in place,

I linked that

hydrogen and oxygen  to

generation upon generation of subway taking-

flower bouquet holding-

love in the last car-

walk-up tenement greatness?

Without another sound,

I swallow this city down.