poem: oxbridge

he came from his side of the bed: whiteshirt, white sweater, whitetrousers with the cresses pressed in, as if he was a gothic romantic caricature of the fine, last old age, aging likeyoung wine, the dorian grey bright and apparent andhelium-esque on his face, he took my thinwhite hands inside his own,unworked, thin hands --…

poem: love poem to internet aesthetics

I can't imagine --a fairer day to love You, thantoday -- the sun is white on the tiles, the statues are made-up likeprostitutes and in the centerof the universe old men sitand talk -- about atomics, aboutwoman, does a form exist independentlyof the concept? In Rome, they do not botherto answer; they make mad love…

poem: lady clane

woman who gracefully and sometimesgracelessly took us, an entirenation of squabbling super-market mums, plastic bags drooping sadlywith sunday roasts, potatoes readyto be pulled and plushed — and she sitsin front of the square tellycutting the vegetables and sometimes (shite!)her fingers, watching; lady clane ridesto the cathedral, smiling brightlyand shyly, lace lining her handsand skinny arms…

poem: my grandmother’s (mystical) first love

he was the type of boyi dreamed about saving —a pretty wraith, oddly colored:black hair, black eyes — a mad rememberingbetween us, when i satin the soft shitting yellowof his apartment, his facerewording, compressing—like a poem in the physical actof being written, movingquickly backwards, the meaningskittering over itselfwith braver, bolder attempts.he was the spirit hung…

poem: the critical reading of innocents

the rising, falling, rollicking –what is american, what is americanliterature: they sit on stools,with feet tucked, crossedat the ankles, girls with milkshakesmiles, whipped-cream eyes –they are the Far and Away, gloryfalling like boys in foreign fields, writing homewriting mothers – i miss youi love you, i will be back.the people reading the bookshave missed it…

poem: tragedy to introduction and rondo capriccioso

fall is saint-saëns, it is slipping offsilk dresses and leather gloves,hands cut on the dashboardand hair mussed,leaving her body like curtainshung over the seat—his tongue spiced,her cigarette sparking, sexcut and served cold;the air is brimmingthe music rimming up—i counted your sallow face in the crowdthe day i left,over the top,for glory and saint george andall…

poem: Let Them Eat Cake

I am Elizabeth the first, sitting in dirty bathwater with rotting teeth, rubbing my hands between my legs because there are no men: I am tired of being Virgin Queen. I am Bloody Mary, I am wailing in the antechamber, the rosary beads dancing like knocked-off heads after the ax cuts—one, two, three. Despite what…