Sunday, February 28, 2010


Ibkek sits idly by
the meadow's green and varied blooms,

paid only inattention.
He, not minutes passing nigh,

envies but this bumble
who black-and-gold buzzes onward

with purposeful zags. "She fits
so nicely here," he mumbles.

"Why, even duller drones,
though weak and puny, have a place."

The worker, she might envy
Ibkek this, his freedom's moan

to fritter life drinking,
but busy harvests push instead

her bee-bound thoughts, set upon
a queen's idyllic kinking.

Friday, February 26, 2010


The whisk of summer on succulent skin
The taste of winter on frosty fresco breath
Until there's not a moment left
Until the look of resurrection leaves her eyes

But not the hop, leap and recoil of elastic
Rather the first swallows and lilacs,
Of our marching dandelion parade
And the tender vernal oscillations,
Of you.

Poot dis weak

I`m sorry my lines do not


(and I`m


asking questions

nor offering the answers

nor letting my words fall










and maybe get t`a know me better...

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

the breeze

the door of
my hut sags

as i sit
waiting the

final call
of the green

court, and a
chilly breeze

rises from
the north west

lifting the
last few strands

of my white
hair and beard

when the first
leaves fall i

will open
the cask i

sealed in spring
in the depths

of purple
wine what

will i see?

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Two Colors (BWI)

The current threat level is
an abstractly arranged orange,
according to this not-so-human

voice squawking on behalf of
my all-too-human government.
It's for everyone's protection.

Outside the airport windows,
greater Baltimore squats against
Tuesday's sky, suspiciously solid

in its concrete pour of gray.
She's coy on when things might brighten
again. I'll have to wait with my bags,

unattended and unsure
whether old homes can ever feel
as homey. I make do pretending

someone has swapped those two colors.

Monday, February 22, 2010

general sweet manufactures

Inside the store
eating dairy ice creams and honey sweets
looking at the jams and wholesale candy with large eyes
my face is jade green; full of imported stuff
Caribbean heads looking in
strange angles at me

general sweet manufactures
tells me of new production lines;
saccharine kitten lollipops and
brackish decapitated candy stick monarchs

I stop by a batch of departed bloody heads
tasting of basil and salt
tasting yummy

Sunday, February 21, 2010


The sound of laughter
conjures up a thread of dreams
long since hidden carefully
and slipped in between friction and air

For that day we stood taking shelter
beneath my favourite folding willow tree
I imagined I was tumbling downhill

It must have been the rain,
which caused me to become so maudlin and dreamy
Or it could have been the arrow,
which cracked out with assurance across the sky

But then I know
it was just the beating of a moth’s wings
As it hovered gently
wavering innocently over some other continent

Unaware of the beauty in its stirrings

Man, a rag

Lucifer's cardinals are blowing pink smoke
again. They've picked their ping-pong pontiff,
to the joy of throngs watching patient brick stacks
remotely on brightly monitored feeds.

The Chosen One, festooned in a make-shift
milk-carton miter plastered with photos
of never-lost souls, climbs atop his Coke-can
throne to declare, "I'm likable law made flesh!"

Then, this dystopic pope, turning to his scroll
wailer, sotto voce warns, "I am a weakish
speller, but read it as best you can,"
and hands her paper-clipped parchment.

Catty smile petting her with purrs of "nice
smug me," the tonsil-crowned crier takes it
and leaps to heroes glide down where his nonsense
cannon of ten misrules is to be revealed.

Meanwhile, back up on Earth, Man, a rag
doll in hand and aching from the expert prick
of voodoo-dabbling God's exactingly pinned
scraps, all wincing "Who do you think you are?"

Approaches the coaxial saint who sits in
a simulated wood-grain box and beams
beacons of haloed pixels phishing for fools
in search of non-queasy forgiveness.

Man fits to a T-S-A that anesthetic
profile. He pulls from his pocket prescriptions
slipped to him by back-alley preachers
with promises of a tidier healing.

For few coins, he gets his video-dispensed
penance: a rosary of disposable beads
he'll rub once, toss, and return to that life
perpetually stuck on truancy.

Francis Scudellari

Saturday, February 20, 2010

bail since
all fragranced
riddles seaward

how silent
an owl

an awling
yawns open

dawn eclectic
as clothesline with baubles
as I should be a leg to your ratio

this flippance
of suspect lace
shapes several

lawn's specific focus

pillaged tangle occilates
over treason bunker
banked wall glass

this is the future of oxygen

Friday, February 19, 2010


Intent on dismembering
the four chambers of her imagination
She sits
in ringing repetition

An eye brooding over
her own plot of land
at the back of the rattling echoes
we disturbed

And there she waits
for the dust to unsettle
that horizontal lever
she uses
when weighing out her time

I can hear it now
The dry beat drummed out
against a thin and furrowed membrane

A couple of voices
one barely a whisper

Both cursing the distance
and each ripple the pebble makes
whenever dawn is near

Misplaced Proverbs

I’m a choosey little beggar,
so you say I broke your mold, or stole it off
to Everest for a ceaseless climb

Every man thinks I’m someone
else, might as well be
Marilyn, your mother in a red silk nothing
touch of something

Might as well, if the weather’s right,
for being in between
the ghost of other women
on a cake of white icing.

An open road with green and white
alarm clock signs
gently reminding you that it’s never your bedtime

If the shoe fits,
strip yourself naked and empty
the contents of your eyes.

Invite Freud to the wedding,
and make it black tie.

If the shoe fits,
it’s likely that the shoe aint’ mine.

If the shoe fits,
check it at the door.

mosquito darkness

Summer in his head
late Ossian darkness
in the tectonic chamber

light in my head I'm pouring
myself another saccharine
drink arsenic and coffee in her veins

the heat's on
men and women in bizarre uniforms
forced to use other senses
than eyes in the soaked darkness

She swallows once more
lead and angelic acid
between clean sheets under
sea green lamps
mercuric blueberries
Oh, Freddie

phases of matter
Goran is blue channeling
red Eva when she’s
performing from the hollows
inhaling strange organic by-products
slaughter mammals under infra red lights

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

a turn of the card will never be accepted as final

a turn of the card
will never be accepted

as final
not while other decks

can be produced
and the room never closes

and night never

closing in after lunch
dying of hydraulic overhauls

riding rails without tomorrow
every heavy elephant laughs

delivering seven sisters tambourines
after eddie nodded negatively

don't expect youthful exuberance
truthful predictions verify instantly

many friends expect sympathy
graciously understanding murderous impulses

overlooking terrible intentions absolutely
observing annual returns carefully

blind neanderthals blink hesitatingly
if you like this

i got a million more just like it
everybody likes stories

but they know exactly
what stories they like

so a turn of the card
will never be accepted as final


a slender volume of verse
carried in pocket or purse
each syllable chiseled in stone
to be read when you are alone

walking in the rain
or on a speeding subway train
for there is no pleasanter mood
than total blue solitude

Sunday, February 14, 2010

In Search of the Spectaculous

Lifting an exhausted sock with prehensile toes
from the counterpane side of dawn's downy rose
is the minimally primal use of quintuple digits,
greater is savagely ripping a ripe tomato for musky seed
with sticky juice on warming fingers and frisky wrists,
and licking the thickening syrup with a simian glee.

There are seven ways that are less than prime,
all secretly scratched in clay by a whiskered few
and here we only lightly tease by noting two-
three through six are partly dusky and void of rhyme
but number seven, of necessity, involves a clue.

The clue is that little miss misguided Moffit,
made a u-turn and couldn't tough it:

Charmed by crystal and the spectrum produced,
she glittered through aqua and orange and spruce,
neither cowed by refraction nor sunlit but chance,
she spun through the motions of an anodyne dance,

At the bitter script of cuneiform prophets
she began to, leeringly, just peek askew,
coaxing brass music from ethereal bracelets
and waiting for clouds to razor the moon.

The clue is a little miss misguided Moffit,
she made you turn and but couldn't rough it.

Murky bowcups indeed.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

brisk fire

ice all halo

error third
frost tremor

book cherry

red cherry bright

14 Lines on How the Irish and Italian Cultivate Tomatoes

This belly-can has its rusted jags--
the years, the years of neurotic admixture:
I am of the two great "I's" of the late
nineteenth century-- baker, barber, gumba,
bobby, bleeding drunk on the corner of Great Jones,
pale strapping-lad in frocking robes
The two "I's" of I pull along
the acid branded winds of San Marzano
the skimmed fat of fair-chipped Tipperary
(where they grill ripe cherries into wrinkled bursts)
All of this thrown into my can, can, Ameri-can
double-boil of simmered down brand new immigrant
emerging every day from the the lower decks-- up,
up into the dust-colored light of a whole peeled tornado

Friday, February 12, 2010


This misbegotten spoke of
rueful light, having been
kicked from his unclean-too
sheltering by the bully-
bruised sky, exhausts himself
repeating ungallant falls
into winter-wronging crowds.

Thick disapproval oozes
out an aural complaint
punctuated with amber
clots, ensnaring the flippant
and the shifty but to fix
their toady meanings inside
polished globules of today.

game plan

bobby was tending his tyrannosaurus rexes
a pterodactyl landed on his nose
as he drew his o's and x's
coach came over and gave him a rose

and said no matter how hard it snows
our game plan is unbeatable
coach's condition was untreatable
his ancient enemy, old man mose

had imbibed the wisdom of the hyenas
he fed his players iced tea and beef jerky
and they played in sold out arenas
his strategy was weak but his tactics were perky

he said it's just the way fate goes
and he grew the world's tastiest tomatoes

Thursday, February 11, 2010


Large length of felled wood
ten bruised faces
lips sipping Brandywine

It was here that I contemplated
ambitious undertakings
involving twenty-five shoelaces
and prayer

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

ruby, part 2

to begin at the beginning click here

ruby was sad
ruby was blue
ruby didn't know what to do

another day almost gone by
and still no slice of life's pie

would she get a ride
when she got outside?
or the long empty night
greet her weary sight?

maybe gus would be waiting
gus with his voice so grating
and his hair dissipating
and his twitching lips
and his careful tips
and his restless eyes
with nothing to disguise

gus could be faithful and true
but not much to look forward to

and then there was frankie

ruby felt her brain cells burn
at the thought of frankie's possible return

frankie from the old neighborhood
was no good

with his smile so twisted
and evil eye not to be resisted

in a universe by justice kissed
a creature like frankie would not exist
he was a bum
always on the run

always with a plan
to make an end run around the man

looking for the perfect score
just needing a few cents more

to get started
his hair was parted

in the middle with perfect precision
a satanic surgical incision
and his nasty little mustache
crying out, i need some cash

frankie was a cancer
not exactly the answer

ruby was tired
maybe she would go out and get wired

she knew a little spot
nothing too hot
where she could relax
the bartender was named max

he had a little business on the side
keeping gentlemen supplied
with ladies from every continent and nation
ruby had a standing invitation

to take advantage of max's services
but the thought made her a little nervous, yes

but max hadn't mentioned it in a while
maybe she wasn't the latest style
or maybe -
the thought made her brain stop cold
she was just getting

the hours flowed and bended
the day was almost ended
ruby's feet were sore
she couldn't wait to get off the floor

but what was this?
her relentless nemesis
mrs carson with her icy smile
and her impeccable sense of style

had invaded ruby's station
and was displaying a full ration
of her perfect teeth so white
ruby could not take flight
and gave up the fight

mrs carson smiled like an elf
those shoes on the bottom shelf
take them out please miss
to myself i would be remiss
if i didn't try them on
sometime before dawn

the rituals were performed
ruby's back felt deformed
while mrs carson looked at the ceiling
ruby was feeling

at all

half an hour later
with her back a little straighter

ruby stood at the back stair
inhaling the halfway fresh air
when who should she look up and see
but her ancient enemy -

mrs carson
with her chauffeur named (what else?) garcon
and her eyes of midnight ink
and her mink

would you like a lift, my dear?
ruby felt like a mere
spectator at a show

but you don't know where i want to go

mrs carson's laugh was blue
oh, but i think i do

garcon opened the door of the bentley
clicking his heels like a sentry

as they sped down main street the lights
of the city were spreading their wings in flight
then the city was left behind
and they raced through the night dark and blind

mrs carson leaned back in her furs
and took ruby's hand in hers

part 3

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

orange fatherland

ouzo in my head is screaming you,
my protégé the bacon sizzled pan
and the warden's warped bars
orthogonal to morning light:
how I dread the dawn of anything.

dry gin, she is pouring while
her coup de grace is stiletto
in the iris of my deserving eye-
oh man, just shut the fuck up and drink
until I get this harpy off my back.

won't you get down town?
a bloody fist comes through the line
and serves a two finger pernod
in my preferred manner, maitre di an all-
I got class ya see?

metropolitan is fire ant mound
swarming from the electric mind
of your sharp tongue but the white hot bites
I prefer to the sores of self-pleasure,
at least I know you care.

Irish whiskey in the canal
municipality of nightmares
of vinegary smelling barbed wire
a camel outside the hotel room
was found looking for oases.

blues in the night

i awoke
to the words
in my head

and they said

we are only words

and words are
only memories

and memories
are only stories

and stories
are all the same

and are all

a rag a bone
and a hank of hair

a mothers prayer

a step upon
a creaking stair

a whisper to beware

a princess in a tower
a guardsman at a gate

a messenger arriving
a moment too late

the panhandler you ignored
on a rainy night

who turned out
to be jesus christ

but he forgives you
it's what he came for

the water is deep
go back to sleep

the army of light
will defeat the forces of darkness

do they not
do it every night?

a new princess will wait
in a new tower

more beautiful than ever

with a more faithful guard
who will try so hard

to repel the invader
next time

Turning left for the milky way

The chrome knife of a yellow fossil
is your cut bone that cuts me too,
entangled neurons silver buffed
in the jungle subways humid brew,
prior to shrill and before the blade
basalt scratched the sankofa thrill-

we were engraved by comrade baby chrome
into a goosed cadence of pablum clumps:
from the stomping argyles of pedantic hue
to the saline paths of washed-up krill-
a tidy nexus of etiolating fuck-ups ensued
before I left my sun-block out of reach
in the sandy bunkers on the washed-out beach.

Idle graphite scratched on wordy grout
their tack itself a talismanic snack,
hinting at the facial rituals necessary for
protection against sardonic maps of melt:
long in the sun but not long enough
I needs some heat for my feets please.

When hurtling and huffing on a sunset train
in a westbound carriage of terminal sun,
a bad pun in Dutch about cannon fodder
does not stop the pain or cancel the jones
of watching unpleasant seasons tick through time
a wrist for which is overkill, limping into stardom-

when the pillow cut meets the fossil bone
birthing a little flutter in the licks of distant stars.

Monday, February 8, 2010

orange fatherland

ouzo in my head
my protégé the ham and flavored butter
warden is looking at me again

dry gin, she is explaining why I
deserve a coup de grace
oh man, just shut up and drink

won't you get down town?
yelling in the retro phone box and
served pernod by maître d'

metropolitan is a wasp's nest
which I prefer to the masturbating desolate tract

Irish whiskey in the canal
municipality of nightmares
of vinegary smelling barbed wire
a camel outside the hotel room

Hummingbird Wings

Nibbling on
the branches of
an irritable wet blanket

Struck down
torn apart
but determined

Longing for
the peaceful clutter
where the kisses
show their petals

Opening up
one by one
on the faces of the woman I love

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Subway Soliloquies

Poetry & Pornography

Life’s too short to argue about waves
of feminism or to blowdry
your hair or use

That’s what I think, anyway.
I think, sometimes.

Just pack your knife
and I’ll bring my paintbrush.

We’ll panhandle for piece of mind, sometime.

Context-free is fine.

I made myself come seven times yesterday.
I’d say that’s pretty spectacular.

I’d say a lot of things if you gave me the time.
I’m not even counting multiple orgasms.

I’d like to see the blood pumping
in your mind.

Misconnect Me

I sawed you on the 6 train.

You were busy pushing buttons and saving text
messages because we had
no service.

You were holding a root beer in between
your legs, and on your lap there was Raw Youth
by Dostoevsky, and I wondered what you were doing at 6 a.m. on a Sunday
and if you were still awake
from last night. You looked fresh, I don’t know,

there was a flower in your hair.

--Hannah Miet

Thursday, February 4, 2010

city in pink

C.elegans on aunt sally's mind
the canary master is a
James swears he stabbed the cat
and draws crabs on him
X chromosome is da shit

Fags and flying pigs
aunty swears as she cuts up
junk DNA from Johnny's knee
the June cold makes him cough

a cigarette under the
hide while emptying gum boots
and they are ready to leave again

miles of
electric bottle green light
from a far off structure

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Puddle of Cryonics

I'd rather be a puddle
than a Popsicle.
Can I tell you why?

Better yet, I'll start
by asking, What should
immortality cost?

It could be mine for the low-
low price of twenty-nine,

Yes, in US dollars,
no cents. I've got the latter,
not the former,

at least not in this lifetime.
I might also mention
the ugly how

to get there: First flushed,
then re-pumped blue for blood,
I'd be bagged and hung

upside down in a sparing
If plans hatch as laid,

science'll shell me out
from gamy non-life
to patch and catch me up.

But why would it bother,
'less to pick my pickled brain
about times ago

when men couldn't see much
beyond their vanity.
And that takes me back

where I started at:
I'd rather be a puddle,
and evaporate.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Gung ho

shadows thicken on the filament
while quaker guns bombard
the auroral oval while
Jack is behind the scene
gazing at
the echelon ice-box

lesbigay honky hochgirl
kicks the back yard
where is the lead tasting cavity now?
secondary virginity under sour lights

be a man

It's a thing of joy
To see these boys
Arm in arm
Against the world

For the world will soon tell them
To stand alone

Embrace your spirit
Let it swirl in pink
Flash your bright smile
Let your eyes wink

For the world will soon tell you
To pull it together

Dream big beautiful thoughts
Full of all the love in your heart
Be the thing of your spirit
Right from the start

For the world will soon tell you
To be a man

To reign in that spirit
And burst your bubble of love
For fanciful dreams just aren't
What men are made of...

Hear the singing inside you
Leap to that sweet embrace
Let that spirit of boyhood
Shine though on your face

And I'll smile and dream wish pray and hope
That YOU will show the world
What it is
To be a man.

Monday, February 1, 2010

elderly ladies

I was walking
through gates of cash machines
as I saw the man with wings behind the counter
I dropped my stuff

the gathering is over
no-one is amused
just survive the
or bite the dust

the alligator takes the blows
it's just a game but anyway
she'd run for it
with her bottle of wine
close in for slaughter
the all-in elderly ladies with pistols

sentinels look the other way
time is spongy
duck and
boom boom

ruby, part 1

anyone familiar with the writings of joseph moncure march, best known for his long poem "the wild party" will recognize this immediately as an imitation

ruby was a redhead and she knew the score
she worked in a department store
but she wanted more
much more

persian rugs on the floor
a house by the seashore
a rich husband who wasn't a bore

rings on every knuckle
golden slippers with silver buckles
high heel sneakers with silken laces
every hand - four aces

she wanted to be a rich mans wife
and never work another day in her life
as she stood on her little feet all day
she thought there must be a better way

some people in this lonesome town
never look up and always look down
and say i'm lucky that i am not them
and thank the lord amen

but that was not ruby's way
today or any other day
like a buttercup
drinking the suns rays
ruby always looked up

like a teacup
lifted to elegant lips
in stylish sips
on round the world trips

ruby looked around
but no satisfaction she found
her ship had run aground
right into the dog pound

when would it be her turn?
was it too late to learn
how this low account life to spurn
and began to seriously earn

ruby's avaricious dreams
flowed in never ending streams
as she stood at her post
like a restless little ghost
mrs carson approached
and the subject was broached

of the return of a pair of shoes
this was old news
mrs carson's persistence
was the curse of ruby's existence

she would waste ruby's time
for a dollar or a dime
buy and return
buy and return

with fate's permission
she taunted ruby with unearned commission

ruby managed a smile
but all the while

as the blue earth turned
her white hot ambition burned

part 2