Archive for the '1' Category


Tuesday, July 18, 2017

He was born in Manchester
just west of here.

As a boy, he wrote poems
in the woods near his home,

sometimes mailing them
to his cousin in Framingham—

sometimes to a woman
he admired in Durham.

They weren’t very good,
so he went into banking.

• • •

Can’t Right Now

Monday, July 17, 2017

I can’t right now, I’m having the piping
on my party blazer primped.

I’m making lunch for my ex’s mom.
I’m making mayonnaise treats on the yacht.

I can’t, I’m going shopping with Lyle Mays.
I meant to say, Lyle Lovett. Tate & Lyle.

Hey, it’s none of your agribusiness
why I’m too busy right now, I just can’t.

I’m serving tea at the tennis date.
Serving it on doilies. In the nude.

I have to get my jet skis waxed in time
for Canada Day. I can’t, and I’m

not trying to be extremely rude,
but I have to pack for Mozambique.

I’m meeting Seth there later this week.
I can’t, I have to study for finals

because finals are coming up. Finals
are later this week. Hey, honey,

it’s none of your beeswax why I can’t
right now, I just can’t, and this isn’t mere

cant, or snivellery, or bombast,
I really am not able to at this moment.

• • •

[Order the book:]

Estate Planning

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Even though Mother
has herpes
I’m going to distribute
per stirpes.

• • •

The Past

Monday, July 10, 2017

Have you ever met a woman who’s as hard as a boulder?
I have. And I loved her, though she was quite a bit older
than I. Only after she died (of natural causes, thank God)
did I see that our love might’ve struck others as odd.
Had it? I’ll never know. No one speaks to me anymore.
I don’t even hear footsteps when I knock at the door—
much less many good people scrambling to answer.
If only my old lady hadn’t died of lung cancer. :(

• • •

The Beautiful Primrose

Thursday, July 6, 2017

The beautiful primrose 
reinforces this notion
that we’re alone in the world—

maybe more so for me,
since I’m a poet, but you
should know that I’m also

a failed florist. I’ve thrown
pots out of windows,
pulled up half-decomposed

vegetation with those
cottony gloves we all know
so well, picked flimsy petals

from damp bouquets,
and for what? For whom?
The solo rose says, hey,

there’s only you,
multifoliate yet singular—
and imperially alone.

• • •

Band Outing

Thursday, July 6, 2017

met, by chance, at REI
one day. “OMG”
said Stipe, bemused.
“WTF?” queried Fogarty.
“Let’s go to TGI Fridays”
suggested Lynne,
so that is what they did—
and created quite a din!

• • •


Thursday, June 29, 2017

You are the very picture of Venus.
A classical beauty you are.
Unlike my last girlfriend, who
looked more like Venus’s killer—

petite, swarthy, untrustworthy,
and need I say altogether desirable—
side-slit duster cardigan and shorts,
infinity scarf, angry earrings

here and there, and lipstick
hastily applied. But you are an apple
standing, oversized creature.
Boring brown hair intertangled

with seaweed, a lock of hair
twisted around your forefinger.
You, standing in an enormous shell,
singing: You, my heavenly hell

as, all around you, Cupid’s winging,
as, all below you, ocean’s roiling,
and above, clouds are boiling,
palms bending to left and right,

fishes jumping into sight
and out again. Large lady,
now I know why Jupiter’s pissed.
The least you could do is not exist.

• • •


Thursday, June 29, 2017

“Dinner and dessert
are in sync:

The dirty dishes
are in the sink.

But when the Titanic
decided to sink

and ambition were

out of sync,
I think.” –Ed Fink

• • •


Thursday, June 29, 2017



Thursday, June 22, 2017