Written 2016
exclusive to


Fast the people outmaneuver each
other on the street, shoulders
almost touching, bags, old folks,
wheelchairs, canes trying, trying to slow us but they
fail, fail, fail, fail.


We watch not stable objects but
only those in motion relative to our speed,
looking for change that will affect our course,
intent only on motion ,
on action but not being.


Each second recurs, though we are
more and more dead, and we know
after the moment when we are finally fully dead
we will lay
inert and dissolving
no longer able to act,
so we push forward, to
to get it
to get it all done.


We seek the way to make it,
our artifact, our name, glow brighter
than other names, branding that name into the
paper of a thousand magazines newspapers books
burning its shape into laptop screens
neon billboards
video monitors
phone OLEDs
searing its magic dog-looking-up sound into


The hot glare
the wet air
the sweat there and there and there
pushing through the dense pressure filled mass of
warm unfolding gas just one more
just one more block
just one more block to
just one more block to reach


Rising enlarging number over
glass door 652 check phone
put away so not get knocked from hand by onrushing
oblivious people until reach the
bronze door handle: warm, firm.


Pull the weight yanks back to
arm muscle the door gives the
cold dry blast the darkened lobby
marble the reflecting floor the wood counter
the man with a blue tunic with a badge with a
glazed eye.


art: Streetcorner by bob jude ferrante [copyright 2017]

to my heart

exclusive to

To my heart came a
guest, who knocked.
Surprised, I received him.

He hung rags in the closet and
banged mud from his boots
in the fireplace.

I offered him dinner.
He ate my favorite dish.
Two portions. Left me none.
I offered my bed and
slept by the hearth.

All night I stared at the
mud, hard pieces. I slept
poorly, the sun rose too soon.

A thousand mornings passed. Yesterday
he pushed me into a corner
and sent me to sleep in the yard, saying,
“You no longer please me.”

It was still early Spring chill.
I shivered until daybreak.

Now he is buried under the
onion garden.

(the onions come in poorly.)

she said

published in poems for peace,

We have our own concept of who we
are. I had to suppress worry.
I smiled; somehow came words:

We live on the eye of god.

The eye moves rough in its course of vision;
the oceans only shifting tears on its surface.

Granite cities, deep and proud,
are bits of dust. They float, too
small to be felt.

If someday the dust gets too big,
god will blink.

dog finance

exclusive to

We sinned together, but
when the bill came, I let
her pay.

How can I give back what I
have eaten in greed? It is
gone, gone.

How can I say thank you when
I have spit in her face? I

Now our life together is dead;
the flowers we shared have
dried wrong.

Around the house in the
dust balls are faded past-due slips,
faint, milky dreams.

The eyes close; I am
buried with shovels full of
my own promises.

aubade (o this mornin)

from the new life

O, this mornin that my heart shut down
switches clickd a steel song.
Closin in line, in a line they form.

Hot lights burning miles on
rising cry of sad red sun
givin voice to mornin, the burnin morn.

A fire threadline joins and burns.
A mornin air that shakes the firs.
First points of mornin, of morning dew.

Give us this day a dark descent
A red track, thousan of red light presents,
reach somewhere to where to go to.

She left him dead laid in the groun,
and slip away without no soun
Jus a white flower layin on the box.

O this mornin and my heart shut down,
switches sang that steel song
closin in a line, in a circuits locks.

not the Mts. again

exclusive to

Not the Mts. again
please I have seen the
green illusions with umber
edges falling long.

Rip away my eyes, they
bleed, too much seen.
A thousand rags
wet with it.

Not the beautiful Mts. I
crawl into the dark and
tunnel down deep to close
forever the wounds.


exclusive to

I am a soft man, so they say.
Night drives fear up too easily.
Unable to give without thought, kneeling
lax and flaccid at the foot of a god
in whom I no longer believe.
Too soft a man. This morning,
this arrived, postage-due:

Greetings, =first= =middle= =last=
We are hereby proud to announce
both the power you see
and the power you do not see
are ours;
and your job, life, heart
belong to us,
if you care or not.
Next time you are followed
by tiny brownsuit men
with cases and ‘staches;
while smoke comes a-sifting under the
bedroom door.
the voices and footsteps upstairs
when you turn off TV;
you know
No need to reply
with heaven forbid poetry.
Do you want to know you?
Ask us.
We creep in and hear what
you say asleep.
We read your sentiments

—The management.

Tip tap tiptip tap tip tap
amazed how tears make
perfect taps on the paper.
Steady and regular,
perfect, like a
wind-up metronome.