Category Archives: poems




집. You moved us six times and then twice more after I left home. This was something remarkable among your friends. And to the end you were always ready to entertain the idea of another move. At different times you wanted to run away I know, but where would you run to and what would you do once you got there? You lacked confidence in that life; you said “I pity your father” without much pity. And so that dream faded without much bitterness or so I thought. It was a dream of being alone. But what would you do once you got there? House became life.





When she died she unzipped the air and disappeared into a hole in time. The air was zipped back up and no one was the wiser.

They sequestered her in a room far away where I can never go and from which she can never come back. I hear her voice on the phone, languid, bored, forlorn. She’s there but I can never go see her and she can never come back.

Dad howled and stumbled after her walking into the street, stood in the middle of the street, looked after her.

On Guilt


On my head is
bellyfuls of plastic that’s
the size of Texas strewn with
corpses of plastic bottles beached
and skewered for their spotted
fur because the warm old glow
of vanishing elephants is worth its
weight in miles driven miles and
miles and miles of gray ribbon out
west because it’s our dream and
became everyone’s dream drowning
babies and continents raining
fire down on weddings and scraping
off the orange from orangutan
mothers butterflies are confused and
flying the wrong way and all this
is on my head.

I know it’s spring




I know it’s spring
because fruit flies drown in
small puddles formed around
the bathroom sink

and decapitated roaches lie
waiting for me
at dawn
the cat’s nightly amusement

and I eye the large rectangle of sun on
the carpet with longing
Soon I will have positioned myself there
on my back, following
as flowers do in summer
the sun arc across the sky



England in 1819 America in 2017 by Percy Bysshe Shelley


An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King;
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn,—mud from a muddy spring;
Rulers who neither see nor feel nor know,
But leechlike to their fainting country cling
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow.
A people starved and stabbed in th’ untilled field;
An army, whom liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield;
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless—a book sealed;
A senate, Time’s worst statute, unrepealed—
Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.