Lightning Strikes the Tip of the Empire State Building (reflections on photo by Acme Photo Service July 9, 1945); finished poem

It was a time ago, when
I first opened a window to watch a storm rolling
past the city that never sleeps. Rolling
past the concrete monoliths and the over sized Tonka trucks.
The storm blew a hole, it cracked the sky;
a gaping fissure the size of a city.
The air shook, rattling closed windows and dark deserted alleyways.

It rained down heat and light in spite of the night
and despite the darkness, for a moment you could see men.
You could see men in their buildings,
men in the lights from their buildings,
you could see men in the street lights and the car lights and the black asphalt roadways.

When the sky split the crack ran the center of the sky
as if god was displeased with our ways
of building up instead of in,
of wasting instead of weaning.
But the men turned their backs from the light
and continued building with cold concrete,
continued lighting the world with dim, artificial lights
in spite of the night.

That's When She Swallows (finished poem)

I love her curves that lift and cut
through the still air,

and now I’m smiling because I know
what she’s hiding and she’s smiling because
she knows that no one can stop her.
And now,
no one can stop
her head cocked to the sky,
body pushed in and forward. Tight
limbs swaying, saying graceful swans,
long, thin and tan. She’s thinking;
only she knows.

And she’s rolling,
rolled up and relaxed,
walking her way down the street,
and when she walks
everyone wants to talk;
but her top is locked
and she has the key
held close between her lips,
waiting for the day
when someone spreads them wide
and kisses her long.
Waiting for the day
when someone searches with their red-tongue flesh
and finds the key she’s holding
tight between her lips;
and that’s when she swallows.

A Mid-Spring Morning

Green blades,
sun-flecks
on display.

A wind
without resistance
rears
and rolls the field.

A sparrow
flutters in mid-air
and pauses;
as if in doing so
she would last in the moment
forever.

Ode to Reading; Notes from the Newspaper (original title: Reading, Pennsylvania)

Late last Tuesday evening
a fire burned on Rose Street.
Two died:
the black and charcoal gray remains
of a mother and her daughter
(the latter still clutching a melted pacifier
as they zipped shut the three foot long
black plastic bag).

The night before,
a man was beaten on Buttonwood
with the ivory butt of a pistol.
He then patiently waited for his killer
to walk two blocks home for bullets,
return
and shoot him.
Unconscious, he could not feel his heart stop beating.

What living is worth

Not one heard
the hammer click back.
Not one could see that
with the barrel pointed,
it ran the length of her hairline;
barrel rammed hard into the soft spot just behind her ear.

Maybe she closed her eyes
and prayed with imaginary hands
(hers were bound behind her back).
Maybe she prayed to her God.
Maybe she thought of home
and said, “Mother, I love you,”
eyes closed to the pull of the trigger.


A sack arrived two days earlier
as iron plumes rose from black rivers
and burned out buildings.
She was told, “This is the best we can do, please eat.”
Rancid meat. Maggots and worms.
This is the best we can do, please eat.
But without firewood a fire could not burn
and without food she could not eat.

The sack that arrived two days earlier
was stamped USDA approved
and delivered.
This is the best we can do, please eat.
Except in her country
deliveries come too late.

Almost Sunset

I don’t suppose
if I asked you would go;
wanted only to watch
the sun set.

The purple hue,
the parade of clouds
and you
so clear, crisp and clean;
an apple
and as delicious.