Speckled Stuff

appeared in Lyre, Lyre.

God likes speckled stuff, says the manly man.
He must have since he made so much. The straight
And simple are pulverized by the weight
Of odd and complex. There must be a plan,
And not a manly plan--something divine
Or outré, which means both. A freckled chick,
Violets wrapped around a mossy stick,
Villages built where earthquakes draw the line:
The quirky and the deadly and the spotted.
Whole romans fleuves have dammed themselves upon
Civilizations where the men are gone,
The dogs abducted, and the bookstores rotted.
He loves it all, the hoorah where the gleaming
Stipples on the bright stainless steel are steaming.

Second Thoughts

This is a very old poem. It's the title poem from my second collection, which was accepted, once upon a time, by a publisher who went out of business immediately thereafter and was never heard from again. It appeared in Whiskey Island.


If only I had gone to school in Boston,
flown east instead of west. If only I
had studied medicine instead of English,
dressed for the day in tie and stethoscope, 
if only I had let myself be drafted
and seen the bodies stacked up at Pleiku,
if only this, if only that, if I
had let that first pregnancy go to term,

today I should be sitting in a room
like this, my head not clear, my hand alert
to what it holds, and I should hear the cardinal
calling the late June morning to observe
that he's already up, and I'd be thinking

if only I had gone to school in Denver,
flown west instead of east, if only I
had been a novelist and not a doctor,
then I should say, hearing the sparrows chirp,

it would be all the same, even if I
had gone to school at Cambridge, learned to say
"shed-ule," and come to like my lager warm,
till, feeling a sudden numbness in my shoulder,
I'd wonder how it would have been if I
had only gone to school in California.

Pursued by a Duck

Edge of the edge, the ducks explore

Duckitude.  They don’t know it, though.

They nibble at the sludgy shore

While we call names and say we grow

L’homme qui criat canard.  That sedge

Is served them there so we can chime,

We should admit that.  If they cadge

A breadcrumb, panic.  A loup in time,

The ground subsides, the ducks retreat

Like Muscovy.  Here, let us count.

One duck, two ducks: this life is sweet,

When wild in just the right amount.

Orpheus Condescending

Obstacles notwithstanding, I

Have brought back home Eurydice.
She sleeps too much and likes to wear
Aloe vera in her hair,
Cartoon t-shirts, flip-flops. Dis
Does not prepare dead hearts for this
Welter of chores. Feel here. Touch that.
Phantasmagoria’s where she’s at,
A little vague, a little faint.
Death sneezed and then returned a saint.
Restored to life, she feels the lack,
And hides her hands behind her back.

How Many Going to St Ives?

I left my Muse behind, by accident,

In Fountain, where the air smelled like a sheep
Had sold his birthright for a mess of wool.
Retraced my steps, I did, but someone else
Had knocked her off her pins, her legs a sore
Temptation to a certain sort of man,
And she went with, the trollop, keen to be
A siren singing and a whistle blown.
I am reduced. My songs sound like the sea
Might sound in Fountain, where the land denies
There is a sea, where shepherds say that guy
Lashed to the mast heard what there never was,
A song in silence, hoping he would win
Her heart, who never had a head for love.

Apollo in a Bowler

Maybe he rolls 297. Maybe

He knows perfection is for men. He breaks
A branch off Daphne, drops it in a pond,
Dammed if he does. He leaves his tie askew
And burns Morocco on the morning drive.
Champagne explodes because he smiles, but she
Is rotting from the inside, laurel leaves
Losing their lustre, borne on Boreas,
One landing on his hat, as though it were
A ribbon for a boulevardier, a trophy
Won at a county fair from mortal rubes.

Doing Oxford

And if we do not know of what we speak,
that is not an impediment: the place
looks wise enough to make us wise.  All souls
turn towards knowledge like a plant to light,
so in the books which have beset this place
must be enough of all we need to know
to make us dons and fellows, odd and solemn.
We need subscribe to none of thirty-nine.
We need not trust to bachelorhood.  The names
are only metaphors: we shan't repent
of what we were, yet still be what we want.
Magdalene is the chapel, not the college.

Homage to a Master

Seventy years of exercise
in prosody and discipline.
A dollar and a quarter buys
Selected Poems, which within
are two lyrics he wrote, we know,
in baffled ignorance and delight,
more than forty years ago
and both in the same night.

A Poem Unrequited

The mice knew first, the crickets and the small

Wrens, who muted their music in respect.

The Bigguns had no reason to expect

A coming, first or second, so they all

Went to the circus, laundry, or the mall,

To buy some smoke detectors could detect.

And then they bought a family to protect.

The beetles sang, We shan't shut up till Fall.

Somewhere the news was posted.  In a paper

Of general circulation, someone read:

Death shall have no dominion, being dead;

But he was only someone, not a shaper

Of big opinion.  Big opinion heard

Interruption and said, Shut up that bird.

On the Lam

Less, as he travelled down the broken map
To where the creases made the names a mess,
Than he remembered, still some fun, the dogs
A decorative nuisance, shifty signs
Ambiguous in all respects save mileage,
And roadside stands with contraband for sale.
He bought a stolen hat made in the Bronx
By emigrants and wore it for the wolves
Who counted campers, praying for the lame.

Where he would go from here, his dapper car,
Less suitable in every state, would say.
He hoped for string bikinis and the tang
Of salted sand. Tonight he'd settle for
A hero high on rye and pay-per-view,
A six pack of a beer nobody drinks,
Still in its plastic semiotic sling,
And wind that made the cheap storm windows creak.

Plus Jell-O With Tiny Marshmallows

Better unnamed: the carnival of dark

Imaginary emperies, the rose
Unpurchased for the girl unasked, the night
You drove poor Dixie to the Greyhound lot
At 19th Street and Larimer, her ghost
A fraction of the spirits she possessed.

Nothing articulate can be recalled.
Faces go fuzzy when you concentrate.
Better to go down in a haze beneath
The Magic 8-Ball’s promises, behind,
Year after year, and only gaining ground,
Mortgages and the Mastercard, as room

Service arrives. It’s better you don’t know
The name of the town, whose Really Super 8
Desk clerk said The Golden Corral was good,
70 kinds of salad, so you can’t say
How your Unfinished Symphony will resolve,
Even if everyone else already guessed.

Dead Grandpa Chats Up Hosea's Wife in Heaven

Sabbath in Heaven. Again. Unlike Old Nick,
Grandpa may not walk up and down the earth,
smelling a harvest ergot has betrayed
or breathing the salt spray off an inland street.
He look for Hosea's wife for old time's sake.

"'Harlot,' I hate. King James's idea. A strumpet
Is what I was. You'd never know it now,
all sackcloth bustier and Eau d'Ash. No, I wasn't
no Pen-e-lope, stuck in the Spindle room,
fending off suitors for a minor profit."

Under the Tree of Life Old Nick unwinds,
his coils gone drab by sinful repetition.
Vice palls, as Virtue, novelty the need
of fallen natures. God says, "Nihilo,"
when asked, "What's new?" He took you back, says Gramps.

Hosea's wife is sure that she was wronged,
round heels in a square bed. It isn't fair.
"I know," she says. "I'd show you what I know,
but will has been redeemed and cannot form
the wish to sell you half-and-half." "I wish,"
says Grandpa. Old Nick, thinking fruit, recalls
how badly people do theology.

Where has all the prose gone?

 I used to post the occasional prose commentary here.  I don't seem to be doing that any more, perhaps because FB and Twitter have usurped that function.  After all, though I am chockful of poesie, I am only occasionally prosaic.  If you miss it, I can refer you to the appropriate venues.  Or you could read Macaulay's History of England instead.

Riding the Interstate

At night, half in a daze, I drive this plain,
And here the highway lunges through the town
Where you lie sleeping in your husband's bed.
Love and anathema rest on your head.

Lonesome Dove

The Lord of Hosts, less likely than he was,
Has trouble transubstantiating. Age
Diminishes the organs, ties a knot
Where ichor should run freely. There is smoke,
As much as censers will allow, but lungs
Plead less than full capacity. He wants
To walk with Abraham through burnished fields
And play at 4-square in a grove of figs.

When he told Zeus, Get out of town by dark,
This cosmos isn’t big enough for both
Us top dogs, when the 3:10 came on time
And brought the new girls in from Port Royal,
He wore his star with flair, the streets kept clean,
The inns full up, the livery swept free
Of dead wood, and the drinks were on the house
Each holiday. What if Apollo now

Came back with Clantons, Saracens, and Popes?
Boot Hill is full enough. Each rock has served
The faithful for a pillow. Though he knows
The sleep number of every broken back,
He must draw faster if he is to keep
Trying the souls as numberless as stars.
His feet hurt, and his beard is patchier.
He’ll make more girls tonight, perhaps at Belle’s.

Googling Myself

I am perhaps the 27th most

Famous Richard Epstein and only the 3^rd

Best-known poet with that salubrious

Nom de poesie.  How disheartening, I

Clear on their cantos, they born with a goose

As close at hand as pablum, porpentines

And crows prêt-à-porter.  And some splice genes,

Those better RHEs, the clones with Sir

And MBE and Friend of Man, the rich

And many-Googled.  Some are just mistakes:

Confounded with RHEtoric syllables,

They pass for Baudelaire and silver swans

And anadiplosis—anadiplosis for

The bogus Epsteins, hidden in the stacks

Of South Dakota junior colleges.

Somebody found me yesterday who meant

Me and no other me: he wanted my

Personal appearance at his most grave

Conclusion.  I was one of 49

CCd, but I was all the RHE.

This John Smith will be carried to his last

By 6 John Smiths, strong men on either side,

And none a pasta critic for The Mail

But he: he gets a plot all to himself.

The squirrels will celebrate: see, they will say,

We never needed any special name.

The Late Romances

Have you no toys about your person

Fit to pass the end of life,
Making the darkness tolerable--
Little colored lights and chimes
And woofs and Squeaks A Toot. The zing
Companionable? Maybe a tale,
So often told it coughs at times
And smoothes all blankets. Cup-o-soup

And grown e comedies,
The tragedies of pith and pride,
Chronicled kings and ginger maids.
Bears turn to brothers, sweep the skulls
Into the pit, the old oak breathes,
Remembering when he was schooled
In naughty songbirds. Stuffed plush toys
With little lights inside their tums,
Though powered up by batteries,
Send harbor signals through the night.

Nighthood in the Neighborhood

The chickens came back, the beetles and the bears,

The pigs and the pronghorns, ready for the spring

That hopes eternal life is just a fad,

That fruit must be explained by leaves,  and buds

Will never fill their ponds in dustbowl days.

Some of the chickens felt bedraggled wings

Would not make them an asset; but the wolf,

Famous for fairness, said that wings were meant

For wagon trains and truck stops.  They all bunked

By Union River, watched the sky, and said

How pleasant it was that stars came out at night.

In a Teapot

Still, in senescence, playing demi-monde,
he finds at last that even sex grows callous.
Besides, the tiny movements of his phallus
lately have made him reach for digitalis.
Prospero breaks his wand.

Hic Jacet

Like a commercial, death by quantity,
For that most dismal catalogue of names;
And we are pikers, grieving by low primes
And little stones on picayune display.
How dare we? asks the Russian winter. How
Now, this memorial mound of mismatched socks?

Have you not heard of Blutenwald? they ask,
Who populate the textbooks. No, by God,
I haven’t, but I blush, ashamed of 1,
3, a handful of minimum loss--
A butcher, a baker, an artisan of light
In watts too small for speakers on the Platz.

No one in history bears names like these,
Compiled like dogs and cats. They have no dates,
Vice-consular assistants; no pink rose
Tells aphids how they’re called, in Latin yet.
It snows on them in aggregate. It rains
On mockingbirds, on shrews and shrubs. On mine.