The answer to this question is yes or no.   That’s three words.   Everyone assumes the yes is most important, the...

This should be a love poem nowadays. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.   There’s surely hearts involved throughout the stanzas on...

I have to say I love you in 40 lines or less.   Space between the stanzas count as a line.   This is now my 10th—11th— fuck I am in...

If it's blasphemy to say this then so be it. You are the one whom God should have made in the beginning. A more beautiful name for each...

The Trane provides me a view above the asphalt, and the fault that splits   both bleached and yellow lines.   One-way signs of...

I pluck the olives   from the salad and that makes it less than Greek. You ask me if they’re green or black and I state it makes no...

Dollar King is probably not the most idyllic place to pick up flowers, especially when they're fake.   She’ll call you cheap, deride...

I always pull my punches playing Scrabble—   just this after- noon, for instance, with a potential triple-word, my holding back an R that...

You greet me with Morning ,  never Good Morning— like you did when hearts were younger.   Morning    rises from a horizon, like an...

The final line of this poem no longer exists. It was surely there for the taking , its fingernails clutching rock, at the top of a...

The website says this poem takes a minute to read—well, if you’re an auctioneer, perhaps.   A poem is not the climax of a thriller, where...

This Rottie’s tongue is jutting between its fangs, like a cold cut soaked in slobber,   in a chilling maw of stalactites— its pointy...

When you asked me for the best Italian bistro  in this city, I answered  google it.   That day on the beach,  as you peered into the ...

It’s the fullness worse than hunger, that ends in throwing up;   the itch more awful than pain—the red from scratch and blood;   it’s...

Potential is overrated.   It’s the flip- side of what is possible, the call of tails and heads;   looking so pendulous— leaving you...

There’s a beauty to our numbers that I note with admiration: the shape of cipher 6 and its curving, crescent close; 8, with its weaving,...

I only see her when she’s out, the woman across the way, pushing her lawnmower that has no engine, the grating of squeaky wheels, its...

What’s the point of Layers of grey cloud are leaving the landscape wet Ducklings in the grass a literary critic asked me, saying who...

Christmas, and the word became flesh on our scribbled, Scrabble board, an empty bottle of wine and a record strumming chords so calm in...

The g in Paglioni is apparently silent, with the i the sound of e (robbing it of a kingly lion’s mane), while the e itself is long and...