Title poem off acclaimed collection, How We Are Human. How We Are Human How we dig desperately at the coarse crust, Seeking, searching for the soft cream beneath Only to discover we were crust people after-all, Needing the crispness of a crunch to give us the Dream of cream that keeps us clawing, reaching, Gargling…
We are goats of le mountain and we watch from these heights domesticated goats in le distance and wonder at what sins their Ramcestors must have committed for le condemnation of roaming the sumps below, away from le clouds, away from le warmth of mountain stars—what temptations yesteryear’s ewes relented to for this race to…
What to do with dew-drenched days squished by the pressure of our pains? Morning, as seen from the inside pane, Scolds anoche’s wine who regrets making the acquaintance of whiskey and networking with tequila who tickled Hestia into the Hulk. Morning light, you ever-eager retriever, the nature of a hangover is not to nurture, so…
Mary’s Poem Written by request for my sister Who wanted me to write a poem That she could turn a line from into a tattoo Mary, when I emerged from the existential doubt our Last chat plunged me into, I felt guarded, yet flattered and cautious in the face of this brave new permanent…
There’s a promised land we are all searching for. All of our inclinations and addiction, remoteness, disagreement and whatnot have been put aside as we align every impulse, action and affection towards it. We picture the land flowing with remorseless hills fluent in all dialects of pasture and privy to the whispers of late summer…
In memory of my poet grandmother, Patricia Mees Armstrong. The Italicized lines are taken from her verse. Poetry of the Dead from my poetry collection How We Are Human.
At a BBQ early today somebody brought Nickel Nips. Do you know what Nickel Nips are? Even if you think you don’t, yes, you do. Remember these little guys from your sweet tooth teething childhoods? Anyways, I twisted two together and put them in a tree, because… that’s just the sort of stuff you do…
Where would Jack Kerouac live today if he was still bouncing around New York? Answer: Bushwick. Obviously… Those who live or spend time in the area have noticed: Bushwick right now is NYC’s latest front of exciting new and emerging artists. From music, to art, poetry and prose, Bushwick is a place of dedicated artists toeing the…
Tumaini –– (Swahili Verb) Hope, to want something to happen. Here, where hope is tumaini are animals everywhere, everywhere animals. Horses on the cigarettes. Rhinos on the matches. Water buffalo nickels jingling around in your lizard stamped coin purse. Do you have a rhino to light my horse? Animals as currency. You never forget the elephants…
Some came here looking for it, asking for it, basking in it and bleeding it. They packed their bags and hopped a plane or train wearing their I’m-going-to-go-off-the-deep-end trunks. Some came here for other reasons—jobs probably—and heard its whisper rise to a cry and threw their brief cases out the office window and flipped off…
