If it happens to everyone...

My freakish double, the killer,
isn’t around right now—
malignancy’s shadow

The host’s old,
the protoplasm frail, the
treatment:  none

Liars in pinstripe suits and cufflinks
Our bliss short, so short
I paid my bills, made my will

Jealousy was their aphrodisiac
(Whatever can heal will break)
and prepared to die


Death and travelers have the same saint...
The door opens easily,
just turn the knob
Last hours of life:

delirious and whimpers beneath
an oxygen tent ...
She hands the parents

a large brown bag of miscellaneous
odds and ends of belongings,
just behind that door

But the black bile was nowhere:
not in the orange size tumors,
not in the foul deep ulcers, nowhere


Nuggets of pleasure for all, for all...

An angry red margin begins to spiral
out from the wound and
the skin begins to rot

from inside
Something had broken and annealed
within her

Eyes bright with tears shed and unshed
The old prune-faced witch
from sagacity to senility

He lacks the gift of silence...
Formless, timeless, pervasive
(imitative, corrupt and perverse)


What I can’t explain – or show, or describe...

A family trip gone bad, real bad
There’s a fire in the kitchen,
The wolf is in the yard

Broken mailboxes, broken locks...
Great effects produced effortlessly,
marvelously, strangely,

inexhaustible, intangible, invisible...
He played it canny in all the glistening courts, admired,
his subtle expertise, his diplomatic grace

Acts are the bottom of language:
Their faces had a poisonous orange tinge—
all that belief, groundless



On his instruction, they bury him
in a plain wooden coffin with a soft
mulch designed to speed decomposition

The windows are covered with hard wire mesh
to prevent suicides, their poisonous orange faces
Relic hunters found:

a few pieces of corroded metalwork
and the tassels from a ceremonial hat
Great stalwart men, back from the war:

gaunt, lean, hungry, weary, sad;
later won’t speak of it—later...
They’ll never try to tell you

-December 27, 2010-