in the din of inhumanity
about women and doctors and workers
who deserve to be gunned down
families who are turned away
to certain death in plastic boats
because they threaten our way of life
there's so much to protect here
cheap electronics
plastic shit and freedom fries
the right to be gunned down by cops
or lunatics
each one is somebody's hero
I'm speechless
retreating for solace in a book of verse
remembering how naively I thought
our children would enjoy more freedoms
I don't know what else to write

I wrote this poem last year and it was published in Silkworm 9: Revolution (the annual review of Florence Poets Society). The photo of refugees in a plastic boat was included in an op-ed by CT Senator Chris Murphy found HERE. He says, "Trump’s Muslim ban is a moral abomination. It is fundamentally un-American. And it is dangerous--it will give life back to the terrorist movement and eventually get Americans killed."


I Was Published In the New York Times


I sent a poem about America's Baby Tyrant to Nicholas Kristof's poetry contest in the New York Times and they published it in the comments. A small thing, but still quite a thrill to see it there.
Gentle Readers, you should enter too!


Birds of a Feather

Here is my poem featured by George Wallace in "Walt's Corner" in The Long Islander, right next to a photo of Walt Whitman. The Long Islander was founded by Walt himself in 1838. Thrilled!

Eight birds
perched on a lamp-post
extending over the highway
grip against tremors
caused by wind upriver
and the Prime Chix truck
roaring underneath
Premiere Poultry Distribution
all the way from Foodmart Road

Eight birds
perched on a lamp-post
wish they were someplace else
anywhere but this lamp-post
squawk incessantly
about their outrage
and seem to have forgotten
the prime directive about birds--
they know how to fly


To a New Star

Photo by and inspiration from Jena Schwartz.

I have set a spell
on thinning ice
under that same star
humming her
a prayer of welcome


Giving Everything Away

It’s hard
to pick a favorite
when swaddled with loss
tucked in penitence
caught flat-footed

Interstellar traveler
you’re a rock star
but your eyes
register discontent
earned with senescence

you queue up Blackstar
and all is forgiven
in a rush
of empyreal foreboding

It gets dark early
in listmaking season
turns out our heroes
are not immortal after all

Today is David Bowie’s birthday.