Monthly Archives: February 2018


I loved her
years ago
before she
became famous
and now she is dead

Who is to say
if she is the woman
sitting in the glass box
in the middle
of the river
or not

Looking back
an eddying pool of word light
held her for a moment
before the current
caught her

Late Winter

A late February snow has
the near world in its sequester

At Starbucks the barista imitates
a bird calling across the water


(Here is a bit of humor for those of us with Scottish ancestry. It is made with as many anagrams of the word “consist” as I could jam together.)

To my fellow Scots
who sit in a snit
you sots on cots
whose only icon is cost

You stoics who won’t
enjoy the tonics of sin
You nits with the tic
You sons of scions
hold onto your coins
and don’t give a toss
what other snots
may do with
their tons of tin

You’re a hurdie if you run a con
on your sis or your sons, you say
but tis a far bigger sin
–a super sonic sin–
to spend
“It will give you cysts
it will”

To you I say–
only wee ones

Thirty Seven Condoms

(News item: the 2018 winter Olympics issued enough free condoms for each athlete to have thirty seven)

Seven and thirty condoms all in a row
The Olympics only last two weeks
but you never really know

Let’s give every Olympian what they need
to keep them safe and happy, feeling
frisky, full of grace and speed

The love gloves are nothing to write home about
No colors, bumps or wireless Bluetooth
They won’t make you hump and shout

So, between events? Go ahead–whoop it up!
Waiting for the luge? Indulge!
Just cover up Buttercup

Tiny Orange Icarus

A rich man has built
the world’s most powerful rocket
Sent his avatar hurtling
towards the sun
behind the wheel
of a snake-hipped roadster

The American president
has ordered a military parade like one
the French president has only bigger
with Abrams tanks and rolling missiles
The Russian czar assassinates
journalists like shooting quail

To the ones with wings of gilded wax
and solid platinum bone spurs
on feet of of the finest clay
I say you are not gods
you are one of mine
your loans are due
your time in the fire is coming
and we have fed you
a thousand years

Storm Large, Queen of Heaven

Crazy enough doesn’t begin to describe it
She used to perform naked, breasts painted
like an American flag or like magnolia blossoms
Singing her guts out about kicking heroin
on her own in a darkened room with spider tentacles
clawing her eyes out & there is only one way
to make sure that you really live & that is to die a little
each day. A tower of flames rises from her head
full of bees and promise and E minor chords
She still performs naked but with her clothes on
She is Brigid, the patron saint of poets, the guardian of the forge
& those who work with metal, the protector
of the sources of sacred water. It is said she invented
Irish keening which can be heard at night in times
of grief and dark lighting & it takes effort to have vitality
without being consumed & you can’t help but suffer losses
so be sure to put baked goods on the doorstep for travelers
& remember that agriculture and poetry are the same
& the Queen of Heaven is nothing short of ordinary
and nothing short of radiant on this second day of February
this day of Imbolc, the first of the four Celtic fire festivals
that span the year and the world and the great vault of heaven