The Rain Was Laughing Sideways


…and the stranger came to town

and no one knew him

and he went to every house

dropping a single breadcrumb

on each doorstep

and then the stranger left

and never returned

and everyone rejoiced

because they had




8 Orgasms Later the Love Child of the Octopus



The path is the progression like birdseed

on its way to being eaten

and the spines of books are just tiny

inkblot men

lit firework cracking

into a shuddering cream corn world

and I share such sentiments

with this newest one

in bed

and she laughs

says I am crazy

like a clown without a face

as I roll her over

run my nails down

her back


while the green electrical box hums

and competing cats

circle in the



and my car sits silently in park

in the drive

like a naughty



on time




England Stole my Rain, and Now All I Can Be

is Happy


In line behind an old lady

counting pennies

when I have to pee

or stuck in afternoon gridlock

with a broken radio

and no air conditioning

I would love to rage

but all I can do

is laugh

as a flock of seagulls

crap all over my head

and a nail gun and a barefoot

become a reason to go to

the hospital.


Pregnancy scares elicit a chuckle,

meteor showers, a promise to soap and lather.

The apocalypse is tomorrow

and I have rose coloured glasses

glued over my eyes.


England stole my rain

and now all I can be

is happy.


A death in the family tries to help me,

but my tears are tears of joy.


Even parking enforcement

is taken aback

when I grab the ticket off the windshield

smile ear to ear

and tell the fine young man

just out of school

in the starched blue uniform



drive safely.



Phonebooks Make the Best Communists


what to do in a pinch:

bake a cake, read the Futurists,

pick my nose and wipe it on the wall

behind the couch

call the mother ship

give them directions to the nearest

White Castle

fill the gas tank with sugar

and old newspapers

exercise my arms and exercise

my legs

the tendons and muscle pulling

like old guitar strings

this is what is meant by a fruitful enterprise

raising yellow paint flecks to be courageous

in spite of the sun

saving many things to disk

crushing up light bulbs into

tiny board game pieces…


phonebooks make the best


did you know that?

power line razor wire

cutting through the

blue veined

sky –


where to go in a hurry:

to hell

or the Jersey turnpike,

a nature preserve full of child stars

and spreadable




I Am a Humming Wood Chipper

of Joy


I am full of electricity.

I am a light bulb of power steering

and opinion.


I am the buzzing phone wires over your head

where the blackbirds gather.


Watching you stumble off to work

each morning,

head lowered

shoulders hunched,

trying to make the



There are no parades for me,

no false snow dropping



Dogs raise their legs in the grass line,

others raise their glasses.


This is what is meant by the daily grind.

I am a humming wood chipper

of joy.


Dimples on pasty billboard faces.

Churning deep in the belly

of overfed whales.


A kiss thought long extinct.

Aging prizefighter electric.


The blackbirds in the trees

all preening and attentive

and squawking.





The light turns on, ah…

there’s a world!

there’s a world!

it may not be a good world

but I see closets

and drawers

and a cracked white

laundry bin

on the floor –


and voluminous

like the 256th wonder

of the modern

world –

and there is much dust about

as if the cleaning lady

had never been invented,

and what of the garbage man:

that impossible smell

as if hyenas tore a baby apart

like a kinder egg

to have what’s inside

and left the rest out in my hallway –

the nodules

and a dirty diaper –

to be picked over

by the vultures

and hoarders


and obit. writers

of some


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