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Were I Li Po
The tiny virtues of so little joy— Overcast remorse winks at itself Through the mirror of my face And beckons my departure With a flick of a finger Indicating the direction of a Path not there. Were I Li Po, I would, perhaps and in no sense of jest, write: All winter I slept like Read more
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The Madness of Mr. Lee
The tiny voices, Like so many ants Infiltrating my ear, More purr than word, Crawl about and Do the work of mental ghosting, Leaving no trace, save for The minute droppings expressed In the course of a day’s madness. Read more
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The Other Side of Chuang Tzu’s Dream
I felt before I saw, Became savage, emerged from a knot of Wood, flicker of sunlight Etching a cryptic calligraphy Before the falling of thought, A dark stirring so deep— No escaping the next Chapter of the dream. Read more
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Easter Comes but Once a Year
Children play Adults brood As the charitable mood Paces like a prisoner in debt to solitude. The hyacinths scream from their garden of pain And the winds shudder over the sickly maples. Those who know what death is may straddle its bucking fears, all I can do this fine morning is love the eye that Read more
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HH Reflects on the Good ol’ Days
…but he forgets not Paris in the 30s, Not his good friend syphilis Or the opium dragon clutching his Smoke-engraved throat. Dinners with Mr. Pound were so Mondain, his every word an Intermezzo of lime and rosewater. When he scratched his deflated jowls The lice there played about Like spritely troubadours encouraged by the thick Read more
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I love the smell of ash, but fear its fire.
Into a great perplexity my reclusive tithing gives wantonly to a little wish about a little dream I never as child ever had. Hopelessly confused, these obscurities reveal, so says my good friend Dr Freud, an unbroken chain of displacements psychically solvent, as things go, as the uncanny declares in silence. These reviling’s cut a Read more
Umbriate Press Poetry 