Ichabod never caught on. I mean the name, not some dimwit doing the opposite in Simon Says. The fact it starts with Ich might have a little something to do with it. No one would envisage Rock Hudson’s doppelgänger. In Hebrew, the moniker means “no glory.” Kind of a piss- poor way to start a budding life.   At school they called you Icky;  asked you if you wanted pumpkin pie. Its shoving in your face which burst their seams, only served to aggravate your acne.   On Hallows Ev

No one has ever said these are the good ol’ days— in the moments they’re occurring. The skies are always cobalt on our memory’s other side. The rain more mist than grief. The flooding just a puddle which got a little carried away; snow the weight of bubbles—toys that wouldn’t break unless you broke ‘em—on purpose; and you on the hospital bed, thrusting out your baby while you shrieked, yet never half as painful as the gallstones yet to come. Forceps made of silver—or a blade

It’s safe to assume you’re observant. Beyond the Sherlockian. There's a grain of sand that’s missing from the beach. Or maybe it’s neurosis. The ocean’s lost a drop since last July.   It’s not only where we vacay. You’re a savant in our own backyard:   Our maple’s bereft of a leaf. One less seed for the grandkids. An attosecond less of raking.   When I mention we don’t have offspring, you speak of eggs & sperm, the odds of forming zygotes, how living's sextillion-to-one.   We

Well, not really. The bird has flapped away. Spooked by a snarling chainsaw. Probably dead by now. Makita doesn’t make ‘em like they used to. The tree was ear- marked for removal. Something ‘bout curtailing Dutch Elm Disease. The fungus is Dutch, not the tree. It came from a pack of Voortman. Cookies make a monster. The rattle of ping-pong eyes. Now AI has butted in: "The synonym for table tennis comes from its onomatopoeic nature.” Who uses such a word? Who’s it trying to im

The wolves inside Algonquin have tired of the toads. The never-ending bragging , when it comes to their command  of oxygen— we breathe it under water just as good— then mocking their silly worship of the moon, saying their croak is far superior to any howl. All of this is payback, for when a wolf had watched a toad being flattened by a wheel, baying not because of Luna, but the quips within the earshot of the pond:   that’s why they rhyme with road   it’s the only way they c

4 is a fabulous number. Of Beatles and of Fire— Earth & Air & Water. The seasons; the directions of the wind; the wheels of your Saturn Vue, rusting in the rubbish now that you’ve set your sight on stars. Perspectives. Everything is different come degrees. Tip your painting over 45, see what you failed to breaths before. How the spectral will lean as we spin & never feel it. There is Axis and there is Axis . I’m not speaking of trifectas: German, Japanese; a sprinkle of Itali

When Aurora passed away, you swore that this is it. Nothing but her ashes on your desk. The unpaid, final notice from the Vet, who dogged you like some Vito from Sicily. When the collections agent arrived, he noted your brand-new leash, your Gotta Getta Gund, the tins of puppy treats; that even though your sofa had been sold, there was a pet bed three feet wide—   no fur which needed grooming, no bags to tote her business, and a stunted, knotty branch that served as stick.  

Your sister draws nothing but stick figures, boasts that she’s an artist, claims that each is truly human: Letter O a bulging head, dis- proportionate— our brains are most important, after all; its torso either L in lower case or possibly capital I—   it depends on the level of pressure that you place upon the lead;   the legs each slant of A, always far apart, as if a virgin yearning sex;   the arms a stroke of V as though in Pentecostal prayer, perhaps her supplication for

Perishing in your sleep is the only route to leave this mortal slinky. It’s clear that no one wants to die of suffocation; consumed by fire or as food,   by that lion in its cage which on its own is a pretty miserable place to cash your chips. If given the choice on how I bid you toodle-oo, I’d sure as hell wouldn’t opt for “natural   causes,”   just a neatly shrouded betoken for old age—   the dragging of the years like a gall or kidney stone, or a lump inside your breast, f

You began to shave your head— before the diagnosis— peering through the smooth of crystal ball. Cancer claimed them all: mother, son, husband, your aunt Felicity, who, when you were only just a sprout  upon her lap, laughed about the merits of being bald: it makes the morning easy, no fussing with a brush or coloured tresses,   the hat stays on— even in the wind,   saying her locks of Toni Red would blind her in a storm, sticking to her visage like spaghetti in the rain,   ra

You don’t really need to take a vow for better. Only just for worse. No one has to give an oath for richer— the jet skis, the chalets, that house on the Riviera, pouring champagne on your morning Oatie-O’s. It’s the poorer that entices you to leave; upon that shitty futon full of fleas, your stomach all a- rumble from that slice from Quickie-Mart, knowing it spun all after- noon beneath the lamp, waving to the wieners which you’ll down for lunch next day.   In health  you’ll

We both hate billionaires. Say if we had their kind of money we’d be feeding every starveling in the world. Christen clinics in West Darfur; rebuild the homes of Gaza in a jiffy. We see a homeless & hungry  sign on the way to the pub, eschew the discomforting meeting of eyes with every step, feigning we spot a swallow flit roof-to-roof,   know we’ve planned this affable evening for a week, have just enough change for beer, hope to harp & grumble   about the likes of Galen Wes

I refuse to live my life in Standard Time. Fall an hour back because the light’s a fickle mofo. I’ll play the early warbler, chow my breakfast full of worms, or at least my Cap’n Crunch. I’ll pour yours out as well while you’re a-snore, make it Sergeant Soggy with my milk.   You can watch my sardonic wave from the mountaintop, inhaling my cup of java you’ve yet to forge, skiing down the slope you’ve still to climb. I don’t care if there’s snow or not. When I was your age, I w

A study in the U.S. asked how many people do you know by name and found the average person knows 611.  Let’s assume you are more social than the average, are acquainted with 800 people. In a world of 8 billion, this means you know 0.00001% of the population. A 100,000th of one percent.  —Max Roser You are less  than a social person— the honorary Poobah of the League of Misanthropes.   It’s possible that your fortune has been shite. You only meet the Karens, the asshat/heeha

You’ve heard your kid’s 6-7, deliberately vague but not. It’s just a passing phase   your mother said and she should know. She walked in Scottish plaid in ’75- ‘76, just as Rollermania had dropped into the schoolyard. Wedged between the days of rock and disco. I say I thought they sucked, the Bay City Rollers, who’d never even set a tartaned leg in Michigan, especially S-a-        t-u-r-                 d-a-y     Night!   You tell me that six-seven i

We need to end this nonsense about the birds. These early-morning sirens. Devoting half our petty verses to their honour. I realize I’ll be booted from the guild, seen as a bitter bard, renounced as a blasphemer, but I’ll waggle my duke at the sky like Grampa Simpson, scowling while one flits   on her merry way, flapping her gorgeous plumes, always looking forward—   never peering to the ground at our transgressions, our stepping around the tippler on the pedway, taking his e

All of us are smitten by the cute. And the shine of symmetry. The clear, un- blemished skin of stunning’s layer. I could sing each varied note of your cantata. In its proper key. Something that’s beyond my scratchy throat. My wineless inhibition. You say the sweetest intonation was from a haggard in the alley, bottle on its side beside her feet—bare, sniffed out by a rat’s consuming hunger:   Mama take me with you. Reach down with your hands, gently tickle like you did. I rem

Heaven will be a never- ending church service. We’ll be singing our lauds to the Lord forevermore! And that’s the good  place? You mean Hell is gonna be even worse? We sat on a wooden pew for 90 minutes. The sermon warned of Satan’s crafty wiles. Our asses ached like the devil. When I asked if there’d be pillows, he said he didn’t know. But some of the Angels shed their milky feathers.   What’s the point of moulting if it brings no sense of comfort? My son who died at seven w

There is always something said of rising smoke. There is fire. But it might just be my camel’s cigarette. No, you read that right. I’m not  a shill for Camel,   their burning cancer sticks my parents smoked. I mean the one I’d ridden home from the Gobi Desert. There’s no other valid reason to visit the Gobi. Not for the superfluous sand. How it gets in your every orifice.   I’m not gonna bother to tell you how we crossed the Atlantic Ocean. It’s already clear   you don’t beli

I’m considering converting to Judaism. Only so I can don a yamaka. My bald spot’s like a cancer— one of embarrassment. I should be in a fucking monastery baking bread. But those are the Franciscans. Watch it spread & conquer every inch upon my head. Like the blob— goddamn Slavic genetics. Some idiot on Seinfeld converted for the food. I mean sure,  a knish is nothing to sneer. I won’t even mention circumcision. That’s not the biggest problem, believe- it-or-not:   According t