Poems: Messages in bottles
Elevens: Forgotten things recollected in elevens—11, 22, 33...
Sacred Trespasses: Contributions to the literary pages at Sacred Trespasses

Self-portrait

The longer I go on like this the nearer I am
in the last inches of life. I am close,
a mid-killed animal

To mere memory goes a half-measure
and that restless rest, half-masted;
and what's this? a list of names, fuel costs,
directions to Rivera’s house in Guanajuato

San Miguel de Allende is more
American, I was told, advised, directed, 
jetsetted in my black-eye half-drunk dusty beat
what’s new sailor third-wind chic

I am half-listening, thinking of Tina Modotti:
Robo cast his lot with beauty;
and what now? some misquotation
of Mayakovsky misquoting Pasternak:

I wandered with you, repeating my part
From head to toe, I knew you by heart

‘The screech of the bomb
still makes sense to us, but the ravings
of the poet seem like gibberish,’
wrote Henry Miller

Jesus christ all these pages, all this
anguish, ecstasy, charity, reverberation, pity,
god damn it all. I disavow nothing

The things you don't know

boil yourself in sentimentality