Poet Tree

I no longer focus any energy On the latest zinc smelter in Tennessee. Death always changes your perspective, Makes the meaning of life a lit...

Minneapolis is now colder than Mars But that doesn't mute the mutinous mutables Who have lost their drones and sinecures And have been a...

It was tuba Saturday night in Visalia, A quinceanera after the pear tree harvest, Enough for some tuval toning inside the sequoias  On Sunda...

I have more eternal resting places  Than I could ever keep track of, but this one May be my favorite: polished limestone, The laughter of ch...

Shares like the facets of some chandelier On last night’s game or show rose in the din Of aviary voices, impossible to distinguish. We signe...

In the end it’s not that time does not Exist.            It’s I do not – except in Recognizable ways,                         Like mirrors a...

The mystery of other people                        — Who dunnit?      What is their real thought                 As I game plan             ...

When Contemporary American Poetry (the CAP in the title) plopped to my college freshman lap I thought, like all my classmates, that poets di...

Old Burial Hill, reserved for families  With lineages biblical, and site of Photoshoots for the model who was not To be, who would not be he...

He hides from all he feels here In the paradis artificiel of words, How she takes them, and twists them To his knees.                      ...

A gentleman named Mr. Blood accosted me at the Johns Hopkins University mailbox window in 1982 as I pulled out an issue of Time magazine se...