Monday, December 14, 2009

You Are Here

Since it may not be important
enough to bother you
about my resume,
and since a page cannot enlist
or sell or repeat or parrot
or ring a bell over a pot
like the Salvation Army
at Christmas

all one asks is that you find yourself
in this little rhyme
and that you not get lost
for any long or costly time
but learn your way out again, slaying
any Minotaur you may meet along the way
and not forgetting to hoist white sails
on the day of your return.

[copyright EAC 09]

Wednesday, December 9, 2009


This sentence is about war.

This sentence is about grammar.

This sentence is about the grammar of war and the grammar of this sentence.

This sentence is about surplus repression.

This sentence is about capitalism and imperialist aggression.

This sentence is about dream catchers and self-hatred.

This sentence is propaganda.

This sentence is anti-propaganda.

This sentence is your sentence.

This sentence is jingo.

This sentence is bingo.

This sentence is redacted.

[copyright EAC 2009]

Thursday, December 3, 2009

The Fly (Adieu)

I killed a fly today with some regret.
It lies among the ashes yet,
a delicate wreckage,
as if crashed upon an alien planet.

[copyright EAC 09]

Sin Base Cuatro (The Fourth Wall)

To the Raft

To the raft in sunlight
in one piece blue green knit
shimmering Raphael
flaunting breasts and hips
overflowing with rose aureole
bathing you were always the better swimmer.

La mujer de mi hermano

We ran away from home
to Mexico not once
but twice.

In the taxi, mi hermano of the opposing gender
along the wide avenue to the Plaza:
“It looks just like Rome.”

“Habla usted espaƱol?”
“Poquito”, I say.
“Bueno”, says the cabbie tenderly, “that is good.”

A bottle of rum
gets us over the mountains on a bus.

We become the race.

It was December.

You were a virgin then, my brother,
Do you remember?

Buddha On Big Bureau

In the high heat of June
by the afternoon’s lazy edge
sits on still water Buddha
in leggy spotted green.


To gusts of gnats
flitting lazily in the sunlight
her merciful tongue.


Later in the moist night air
over warm earth
the song of wanton bedfellows
chorusing sex and rebirth.

Brekekekex koax koax….

Winter Park

So seldom postcarded
in the snow
just the two
not a word
side by side
motor running
heater on
burning rubber
out front in the Ford.

[copyright EAC 09]