Volume One, Number
A Shaking Spear
The Lament of
Hephaistos while in Oceanic
My lover's buns are nothing like a
Plate glass is far more rippled than his chest.
His six-inch fuse becomes his only rod.
With no cologne but rankest funk he's blessed.
I have seen glistening men, hirsute or
but no alluring luster's in his face.
And I've known even yokels less uncouth
clutching their men in graceless long embrace.
I like to hear my lover's tuneful shower,
but any glories there are merely myths,
for though his songs indeed my spunk empower,
the truth is that he all too often lithps.
And yet I swear my man's to me more real
than hunky clones who, unrehearsed, can't feel.
Forget it all, every last
It can’t be recalled, anyway.
The quest for antecedent,
for the contours of primordial meat dumpling,
for the steps marched en route to annihilation,
however noble, is doomed, in the end.
Don’t imagine otherwise. Don’t be lulled
by branches waltzing by on gray silk,
by the ache of your blurry yearning,
into conclusions of grandeur or imagined connection.
Pulp the maps and the
burn the photo albums.
Circumvent the archives,
municipal and otherwise.
Why face the natives pissing at the tour bus?
Don’t go to the tombstones,
tottering in drunken gloom.
You won’t find anything.
I come from the garden of nothing and nowhere,
and to there I shall return.
You too, you know.
But, if anything should happen to
me in the by and by,
her many chins aquiver at last,
peering through the lace of bramble and tangle,
take care of my children.
This one is X,
and this here is the angel Y,
my twin integers against the apocalypse.
That’s all I ask. And thank you for visiting.
Come see us again soon.
All the schoolyard
taunts initially came to
He--beanpole, tower, tree trunk,
ropy, Lincoln, skyscraper,
(But now with a twist—the ripple of sinew,
the strain of bicep.)
And she far below—a speck, paramecium,
toy, bobble-head, Weeble.
An odd couple, sure, but also
With Sarina, you see, Marvin made
His long limbs formed a fortress around
her barkless muzzle, her tiny body—
more places to hide, snuggle, get warm,
even in summer.
A light bore through her rheumy eyes at
His every move, his very touch transformed
her into ecstasy.
With Sarina, Marvin removed his mantle of
the voices from long ago, the stares of
In the fog of her declining breath, he
could loosen the fortress of his discipline.
Hovering around his ankles, her limp was
if not healed, then irrelevant.
Her wiry gray curls became damask under
his massive hands.
Throughout their strolls the neighbors
eyed, not the tower and the toy,
but me, the one behind them. It was so
obvious: none of this was about me.
Even when Marvin pooled Sarina’s drool and
I saw myself
hobbling to the toilet of an old age
a scrim on the eyelids banished to the
cobwebs of foreshadow, even then I knew this.
So don’t let this poem be about me, the
ghostly lover outside the frame.
If you have to see me here at all, see me
not as interloper,
but as chronicler of a gentle love. Listen
to me as I walk with them,
whispering my incantation, my mantra of
Sarina, Serena, serene, serenity,
Sarina, Serena, serene …
apple tree stands alone
atop a stark bayside
Bowed and twisted
her forsaken golden
hoping to entice an
desires bitter fruit
with rotten tang these
prime, the apple tree had borne
an abundance of golden
bore them right on her top
fruit of Hesperides.
But the reaper cursed her
and vowed never to
for how dare she taunt
with crop he could not
But had the tree’s harvester not
such malice toward her
she would have tossed care to the
and let her golden
yield like tender
Now she fancies a
brought on by September
Lament of Hephaistos while in Oceanic
remember her eyes as
and eucalypts tickled
soft tan grains
I wonder if
still boogie inside her
or if gum trees
still droop over her
or have all her suitors been
and her stringy bark
If only her pools could
then I’d see why my Lady
and why I’ve been forced into
refrigerator rudely clicks its way to an expensive
the valley of our kitchen,
where the faucet drips debt
centipedes vacation in the dark.
duet of dying appliances
wakes us up early and
you timidly explore
terrain of my hips
you’re panning for gold.
domination is sweet at 6:17
“That’ll be three thousand dollars and
sixty-four cents, Mr. Rowan,” said the Asian clerk with the
empty smile. “Cash or check?”
“Visa,” said Mr. Rowan.
clerk smiled and slid black plastic, the right way, at the
Rowan made a soft clap. The tall, pale manservant stood to the
right of the door of Bloomingdale’s, wearing a simple two-piece
suit with no visible buttons. Without preamble, he strode to
his master’s side and began to pull the latest wardrobe
injection into his long, monkey-like embrace.
Moments later, Mr. Rowan’s most impressive
wad of closet stuffing yet, was bundled into the trunk of a
silver stretch limo on the curb in front, and hauled away
beneath the characteristically schizophrenic traffic lights of
am how I dress, Jeeves,” said Mr. Rowan. With that, he pulled
on a black teddy bordered with kinky lace, and smiled into the
large vanity mirror in his bedroom wall. He shifted from
foot to foot, searching for the perfect angle. The image in the
mirror aped his movement. "Today,” Mr. Rowan giggled, “I’m
decked out as a high-priced delight.” Tossing his head, along
with the brand new, jet black, thousand dollar wig on top of
it, he grinned into the mirror. “I wonder what the filthy johns
on 125th are paying for this sort of class, this time of
manservant remained as impassive as ever. He had learned ten
years previous, that it didn’t do much good to question the
Master’s sense of style. “Very good, Sir. Are we taking the
Seville tonight, or is Sir more in the mood for a less smooth
journey? The Ferrari Formula One, perhaps?”
Rowan laughed and laid his palms atop the teddy’s breast
pockets. “I think I would rather have a new friend in the
drawing room instead of in a cheap, roach infested hovel
Jeeves. The manservant’s actual name was
Warton, but he had learned ten years previous that it was
better to simply allow the Master to call him whatever caught
his fancy on any particular day. Or moment. Things went
smoother that way.
“Very well, Sir. I will prepare the drawing
john first, Jeeves. I’ll prepare the bath. Besides, you always
forget to add the Clorox, and I’ve got to say, that just takes
all the fun out of riling the vermin up.”
“Very well, Sir.”
week later, Mr. Rowan became a pirate. A bright city night
passed, and when morning came, two fancy lofts had been slashed
to ribbons by a broadsword and befouled by great gobs of human
feces, that covered the walls like new coats of
nights after that, he transformed himself into a football
player. An ancient high society woman in fox furs paid for his
fun, when her left knee exploded like a pinecone in the heart
of a blazing campfire...under the football player’s sudden
nights after that, he morphed into a biologist. A stray mongrel
lost its right hind leg to the perversions of dark scientific
day later, Jeeves, since he had no choice but to play along
with the Master’s transformations, (it was there in the job
description, in great BOLD print) ran through the large mansion
in abject terror, an old rifle in his right hand, a kerosene
powered lantern in his left. The serial killer that the Master
had become seemed lost in a tide of confusion and madness,
though this illusion was tinged with an insanely bright species
of lucid joy.
“Come to me, Jeeves!” he screamed, his words
echoing up and down the halls of the vast old mansion. “Give me
your neck to cut, and I’ll give you a raise!
manservant barely managed to escape this particular game with
his life. He did so by bringing a rare Japanese vase down on
the Master’s head from the within the shadows of the darkened
building. “All lights off, Jeeves,” the Master had whispered as
he stared upon his collection of African weapons before the
start of the game. “This can’t be fun without darkness.” The
Master didn’t fully recover from the blow to his skull for
month after that, he made himself into a poor drunk vagrant.
Bottles covered the floor of the food court within the local
Mini Mall the next morning.
went on like this for fifteen more years. Until, one overcast
day, in the festering bowels of east Brooklyn, Mr. Rowan died
in a battered suit of medieval armor. Brought down by a hail of
very modern armor-piercing bullets, his final words were, “For
Her Black Majesty, you bastards!”
Jeeves, saddened beyond his own belief,
buried the Master in a navy-blue uniform.
Master’s nephew, William Phelps III, being next in the family
line, inherited the family fortune.
Jeeves gave himself a week off: to purge the
former Master from his heart and soul.
William first came to him in a shiny black
wetsuit and thick goggles. Jeeves had managed to bury himself
up to the crown of his head in Wall Street black and white, a
cup of black coffee on the table in front of him, and a half
eaten doughnut on a saucer beside the cup of coffee. A small
voice bled through Wall Street words and found its way to his
“Jeeves, I feel like Jacques
years old. The boy, the Master, idolized the old depth
yacht will take us to the Marianas Trench, won’t it, Jeeves? It
will, won’t it?” said the boy, the Master, his brown eyes
ablaze beneath the goggles that sat upon his smooth, dark
“Yes, Sir. It will," said