Why do they waste their time to pray
outside in the park in the glare of the yellowish sun,
in a cloudless sky on this fine Spring Sunday morning?
Or any place else, for that matter, why pray?

Pastel flowers and the sweet Spring’s breezes

They’re afraid and they want to know
how their futures are assured
So they pray to that musical, magical force from afar
in charge of our fates, our desires, our stars


Illusions, hallucinations—no big deal
He thought the damn thing was there
It wasn’t; that is all
There is no innocent sight

Tall grey branches and the Night’s dark coil 

She responds in the middle of the night
when her loneliness peaks and peeks
through shadows—we don’t, can’t, ever paint,
draw or even exactly say what we see


Your most intimate confidences betrayed
The lake half in shadow,
half in colored reflections
Some talk of troubled people in bleak settings

Bushes glistening green in the Lake’s clear ripples 

Clear and distorted at once
We take, borrow and thieve
from our friends, colleagues, acquaintances and tradition
We pretend to say so much more than we see


Yesterday (that was so yesterday)
he endeavored to create likable characters,
explore hidden traumas and altogether claim
his wayward, subtle and nuanced sensibilities

Questionable motives undercut in His brilliant, brashest style

And heal the damage done to him
in childhood, all the while writing
in a setting so topical, devilish and melancholy
that you wouldn’t be able to stand it


The sweet, kind woman from Egypt who escaped
said to him “Please don’t hurt me” as
they were about to fuck for the first and only time
What the hell, why did she say that?

Her wild weeks of jail, restraint, weakness and Anxiety’s crass terrors 
How is this to work?
Why does she think he would hurt her?
Really, hurt her? Physically? If she thinks that,
then how can this work?


If my Dad (Arthur) was bored at a party
even if he was a host, they said
he’d slip away to the next room over
and happily bury himself in a book

Quality time away from the drunken, the dull and Myriad’s mad riffraff

He’d read, say “Tarzan of the Jungle, his adventure in the city”
Cars bear down on him, they crowd him
Faces like masks suddenly pop in or pop out of high buildings—
Arthur!!! Where’s that damn Arthur gone to now?


He really liked the sweet, small witch
with her long blond hair and its subtle light streaks of
artificial pastel, her nose ring and her little tits, smeared
lipstick and that tasteless tattoo that runs up her left arm

Sweet moments of wine and a Stranger’s hot lust

But the little witch, alas, doesn’t like him
She vanishes, mean—doesn’t even tell him they’re done
That stayed, practiced, casual dis of him hurt, it stung
“Her eyes are fire, her heart of flint is made”


Dear, your lawsuit isn’t going anywhere
True, they treated you badly after you worked
for them all those years but you’re just
a bartender, my dear, so no one cares

Flights of mad indifference, Fancy’s fresh slights

So she didn’t manipulate it right
She wanted a situation of true admiration
beyond the need for manipulation
She wanted to be loved




-May 9, 2015-