Monthly Archives: January 2014


Riddance declared, I hereby rejoice

in victualizing, those little lewd nothings

with which I’m nourished, mouth stuffed

like a rush hour train in Mumbai: head


a jumble of tit for tat, of this for that, scat!

Who took the traitor down? Who bunked

with Tokyo Rose? Immissi in anum! What?

You heard me. It’s venery at its most


cluck cluck! Precisely as a Bach concerto

dumbs down into a hodgepodge of rock, salsa

& hip hop it’s a folly that could/should finesse

a zither. If only. Of all the heresiarchs


in a lather I’m the only one not carnaled with.

Why? Should be obvious, you nothin’ but

a dowdy, a smell-smock, a shake-bag. Save

your insults for that large hair over yonder


with the slash scandalous. She obvious

one of your kind & should be gone. Where

would you have her go? Cush? Ham? Pul?

& who there beget? Tom? Dick? Harry?


Contrary to popular belief she (Mary) is a sackcloth

saint, a nostrum-bearing dowager who’d willingly

carnage. But first, an interruption, a letter

from my daughter’s orthodontist, Dr. Ken Marshall


who informs me that she’s an entrenched bruxer

with severe TM joint & myofascial stress. Too much

information? Probably. Is it genetic? Am I, her father,

an entrenched bruxer too? Could be, but for the moment


what I need (what the doctor ordered) is a hydro-

therapeutic establishment where… A what? A hydro-

therapeutic establishment – down into the bowels

of the earth, wraiths in steam, masculine to the core. Sorry,


I have a problem; I’m partial to women, to (for example)

a woman like that woman waiting to cross the Champs-

Elysées who, suddenly, without warning, is compressed,

is no taller than the three year old whose hand


she’s holding, the traffic light flashing like a strobe light –

red yellow green red yellow green. It’s going to be

impossible to cross with so much traffic. This morning

a dozen pedestrians who tried were crushed by

an omnibus circa 1928 & yesterday an old woman


was trampled by a clumsy rickshaw wallah. Quel

rodomontade! Taking my cue from Charlie Mingus

I should probably disassociate myself from the confusion

& plead Usage Crisis: open season on manor jobs, house


jabs. Hunker down, Precious, heels dig in, no guff

from the clowns who drive the big machines. What

huff! What puff! What word to the wise? What

a wicked lot you are with your beastly Peggy & Sue


back to back. Back to the good old days when mouths

were stuffed with little lewd nothings, rush hour trains

on the way to Pul to beget with Harry a hodgepodge

of hip hop, salsa, rock…





I am Icarus

I am Icarus


I am Icarus
trying and falling
trying and failing
alone I am trying
buoyed by my father’s
indulgent encouragement
his softness his weakness,
his weakness his weariness

I am Icarus and I tried to fly
too close to the sun
my mother’s thoughtful gaze
too often turned
on trivialities
I needed her metal
not my father’s waxy
for this enterprise



(To Karey)


Yes there is testosterone

& someone has to have whatever

Is necessary to go out &

Put the dinosaur cutlets

On the table

–          Or Adam could have

Kept growing grass – the type

You eat – (& maybe the other type too)


But thousands of years

After Achilles the great bloke slayer

Dragged the body

Of a good man in the dust


His gene is eyeing off

Those rich planets because this one

Is getting pretty stuffed


No doubt you’ve got a bit of Achilles

In there but despite all that

You are a good man


Who does good things

Not because you think you should

But that is what you are …


So keep doing it &

Have a great Birthday …


beyond the future it predicts

beyond the future it predicts

Blue Poles

Jan 8th  8:20pm Blue Poles

The sky is uncanny, the birds finally quietened,
a lone frog, crickets and katydids
are applauding their rural lifestyles.

Brushed in darkness, the forest waits for bats,
but my screen glows bright – as distracting as dragons,
I flick through emails then the news:

‘Ex-wife of The Road writer Cormac McCarthy
pulled silver handgun from her genitals
during argument with boyfriend over space aliens.’

Dusk, Blue Poles

Dusk, Blue Poles


Angophora One




Winter sunlight glances off my unshaven face

as the rumble of accelerating cars and the tolling

of birds floats up from the valley below.


Our angophora is dead, the arborist said, ringbarked

by borers, the roots and then the branches starved

of nutrition. The remaining leaves droop, they fall


in large bunches and fill up the gutters, a mass

of spotted, shrivelling fractals. The mottled trunk

is now streaked with what appears to be black paint,


as if Jackson Pollock had flung gallon after gallon

from this balcony. The dead tree sways in the breeze,

an upside-down mobile of arthritic branches and twisting


limbs, stark against a blue sky. Yet even in death,

this Sydney Red Gum is beautiful, transforming itself,

as Uluru does, in a thunderstorm: water slides down


a cracked and peeling trunk and washes over the trails

of bleeding, dark sap—the tree’s last futile attempts

to expel the borers. A majestic sight, it will come down


one day. But I long for its rebirth, an arboreal Lazarus.

I cradle a desperate hope that it will mock

the stubborn permanence of death.


Dying knocks the wind out of you, it carries off

the blooming white flowers and green leaves

that once hid a nest of baby currawongs,


the same birds, I want to believe, who still rest

in these nooks and windswept forks, their cries

now rising above the tree as the light quickly fades.




Titled Untitled

Titled Untitled









so you floe

back in

dressed to kill,

with all accoutrements



by any


human diktat.


the fricative chill

of your

polar blasts

stabs us in squadrons,

to whip up,


any our





we counter futile


squalid shifty



as you garner



olympic gold

to lumber



m  a  n  t  e  l ,


















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