“Bringing Home the Bacon,” “Chopin and Savagery,” “Gabriel Garcia Márquez Knows His Stuff,” and Other Poems

Bringing Home the Bacon ---for Francis Bacon and David Sylvester (1966) The artist’s burden begins with us, the little people who’ve left their…


Cult of Excitements

What of the spiritual longings of atheists? What is one to make of them? Yearnings of solitude. Cosmic solicitations. Death of a salesman.…


“Deaf and Dumb” and “Preservation Society”

Deaf and Dumb The neighbors dropped by to say how superior Trump makes them feel. They love every minute of it. Never have my neighbors ever felt so…


“Aurora Taboo,” “On Humes,” “On Our Knees,” and Other Poems

Aurora Taboo Believing is seeing, they say…we are awash in strident belief, a belief scape, hogwash heaven. Each bears a haughty pout. There is no…


The Redneck Riviera

Not Speichergasse, but Martin Luther King Boulevard, a name almost without meaning in a country such as this. Think of Rosa Luxemburg Boulevard in…


“Ode to Timbuktu,” “Classical Allusions,” and “Lightning Strikes Twice”

Ode to Timbuktu If only our youth were engrossed with Prokofiev and Buddhism, as were Ezra Pound and his pals back in the day; if only the young…


“Your Inauguration Tote Bag,” “Embattled,” “Embattled, Part II,” and Other Poems

Your Inauguration Tote Bag Your inaugural tote bag, sir. I had just gone through three levels of security to be allowed into the stands so I could…


“Grand Canyon,” “Just Desserts,” “In China, Bathrooms Have No Stalls,” and Other Poems

Grand Canyon Men I know have given up. We are all told it is biological. Our bodies know the difference. Titty-bars attract the most. My best friend…


“History Abhors a Vacuum,” “The Indignities of Serfdom,” and “Phi Beta Crapper”

History Abhors a Vacuum Goebbels, Göring, Bormann, Speer, and Himmler used to meet at Uncle Tom’s Cabin, a cute little café in Berlin’s Anhalter…


“American Poetry,” “Vinegar Pie,” “Delmonico’s on the Mississippi,” and “Earthworms Here”

American Poetry Masculine existentialism, i.e., men looking forlornly into the middle distance, not too far, not too close. Masculine, because…