The light is fading

You say the light


But I say

it fades

You tell me I’d better look

for myself

look there. . . the light shines

see it

it shines

but I say

it fades

to shine is to fade

perhaps the light is shining

but fade is not


it’s the process of fading

by shining

its always a fading

a fading

by shining

a fading

and then so do you

and then

so do I


A poet is yet again stirred by the seasons

autumn approaches

weaving dead grass into the green

like whiskers

graying on a man’s


The first air tinged chilly

slides off tree trunks

tentatively donning

deeper hues

the year ages

hinting at the winter

youthful spring faded

until born


in the hospital

a baby is born

her father rocks her gently


out the window

at fall’s approach

his mustache twitches


“I will call you



Late Morning

An old poem from the boarding school days, it gave me a laugh when I stumbled across it hidden in an old laptop.


As the softest sunlight spilled

across the fusty speckled carpet

not unlike the fragile calm

which oft predates the storm

weary eyes of mine uncracked

to let in rotten ‘lumination

ears attached to blast and blaring

clock that tore me from the darkness

Thoughts profound to life then galloped:

“Shit… Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Itchy prickly cactus crotch an itch

produced from burning razor

stabs into the tender sack of balls

that rides within

consequent I noticed sharply

pain beneath my shoulder blade

like magma drilled between my bones

and joints to burn the flesh

on my stomach bumps arisen

fiery rash alit with reddened

skin with sudden irritation

burst to my awares

drowsy stumble to the bathroom

prop myself against the walling

messy piss with pointed laze

“Dammit… on my fucking foot!”

Briefly showered, hardly toweled

twisted into shirt and tangled

tie that doesn’t fall correctly

pants with pocket ripped

socks unmatched in shoes with holey

soles and laces loosely wedded

underwear that further triggers

irritated groin

weighty pack of weary back

held by fraying shoulder straps

renders walking slow and dumb

time to go to school


I Should Drink Windex

My room, is clean

the bottle


is clean

I find


brings order

my room needs


Perhaps, I’m not

so clean

who cleans

his room

I find

no room

cleans me


The Smooth Rock

The smooth rock

                 is dented

white powder, cracked surface.

I smashed it

The smooth rock

The jolting wave of


The smooth rock

is sweet

I am not sweet

you are not



– the inside –


The smooth rock

isn’t smooth



Somatic Poem Experience

This poem is a response to a somatic prompt a fellow student offered to me as part of our Language and Thinking course at Bard College. The prompt was along the lines of: Observe five people in the course of a day who have similar body parts as you do and contemplate into which categories these similarities place you.

Another added complication to the piece was that I was required to weave in lines from page 7 of Judith Butler’s book Undoing Gender.  

I was more than pleasantly surprised by the product. Enjoy.

Five meat sacks

skin only stitches together


of social support

beautiful; I think

penises: awkward

it turns out that changing. . .


changing. . .


changing. . .


is a prerequisite for self determination

not too tall, not too short

the body maintains


the body maintains


five meat sacks

bound up with social critique

support. . .


support. . .


conversely sacks

conversely meat

self is demented

determination indeed.



Butler, Judith. Undoing Gender. New York: Routledge, 2004. Print.