Monthly Archives: March 2017

Monday’s Verse 3/14/2017

Dear readers,
sorry for my absence yesterday, 8.5 hours of which was spent driving, 5 hours in a training, and 1.5 hours on a couch staring at the air. No time for a big intro today, but I did find something seasonally appropriate by a poet whose name anagram is "I care, big CEO." Regie Cabico is a former slam champion, and damned if he doesn’t craft a good title. -ed.


The giant Slinky

of  Spring approaches

& I have nothing

to sport after spending

a fortune on hooded

sweaters that make

me look like I’m searching

for the Holy Grail.

Struggling with

granola & soy milk,

dental bills accumulate

like snow & the potatoes

I forgot have rotted.

I’m broke & broke

& broke & broke

& broke, a bowling

ball spiraling down

a middle-aged

staircase of doubt.

The night I crazily

fled for the gentrified

grids of  14th Street.

A pinball, I landed

in Playbill. I left

Brooklyn tossing

televisions & futons

like bombs

in the bowels

of  hipster bohemia.

In the piano karaoke

bar, I met Kevin,

a Peter Pan

Tennessee man

who spun quips & wit

like pixie dust about me.

A puckish chariot

fueled by moxie,

this lean tambourine

of charms leaned

over me, a hot flamingo

in the midnight light

& admitted his


fetish for Laotian

men in his youth.

I wanted him to fall

for me as if  he stumbled

into the inside

of an Oriental

mansion shaking

the tchotchkes

in my heart, steeping my

crush into sweet green tea.

Kevin would be my model

of elegance, unabashed

confidence, a dragon

fierceness. He said,

There’s more to Rainbow

Pride than RuPaul

& Stonewall kickball

& I finally felt

I belonged in DC.

November, Kevin’s

jaw ached. He showed

up at The Black Fox

mumbling  jumble

garble through tears.

His feature canceled.

After the first break

from winter gray to blue,

Facebook alerts Kevin’s

wheeled to hospice,

liver cancer.

I teach Donmike

how to make pancit

noodles. We become

the curse of gossiping

Filipina spinster aunts.

How have we become

giggling little lily pad

princesses behind

invisible hand

fans, waiting for

our potential

suitors to make

the first move?

I wonder whether

you’re afraid my hug

lingers a little too long

after I rub your feet

or maybe you’re just

a Scorpio expressing

affection & I know

I have 3rd world Daddy

issues but I don’t want

to bring up hopes

& fuck ups.

Maybe I’m in love

with you like that

baby weasel riding

the flying woodpecker’s

back. It’s an Avatar

magical, sci-fi,

unexpected flash

of  bliss when really,

the woodpecker is

fighting for his life.

The weasel doesn’t

know what it’s gotten

itself into but a thrill

that will never

come again,

something better

than a feathered

Baby Jane din-din.

Tomorrow, you’ll

want to go to Rehoboth

& kite surf at the beach

house of the guy who

lusts after you. The priest’s

sermon makes no sense:

Forest Fires in the Bay,

Water Well Maidens

& “Let It Go” from Frozen.

It’s not that I hate white

people or that we’re soul mates.

It’s that you’re beginning

to wash off me like ashes

in holy water.


Monday’s Verse 3/6/2017

Dear readers,

somehow poet Michael Hofmann (b. 1957) knows just the kind of nostalgia I can get into. It’s the kind that smells like someone’s basement, sounds like a bowl of rice krispies, and invites know-it-alls, and he refers to it not once but twice in this hot-off-the-presses poem. I think he’s making a specific cultural reference there in quotation marks at the end, but I don’t quite catch it.

Mr. Hofmann has won a ton of prizes in England, and has also translated more than 70 books from German to English. Enjoy. -ed.


A few yards of vinyl records, well-thumbed,
Under the cistern that sometimes overflows over the front door in London,
The drips giving visitors Legionnaire’s disease. Books in four countries,
The same books. No turntable. None of this is a boast.

Boots, sweaters, jeans, from pre-designer days.
Papers, birth certificates, dead passports, their corners docked,
My degree, my decree.
Unopened letters from my mother.

Three sets of taxes, old boarding passes,
Coins, bundled stationery envelopes that are stuck down or won’t stick.
The whatever world of passwords, streaming, and clouds–
Oh, streams and clouds by.

A trunk holding a suitcase holding a hold-all.
The travel equivalent of a turducken,
Motheaten to buggery.
Children’s clothes, Oshkosh, never worn.

Two paintings by a man called Smith, American in Paris, or Brit in New York,
One by "Puck" Dachinger, a black canted nude in a pink camisole,
With a stove in the corner, scratched with the back of a brush:
Ravings from internment on the Isle of Man.

Blood on one of the doors, peach on one of the walls (don’t ask).
Two plastic bottles of yellowing samogon mescal
From Mexico, sealed with extra twists of plastic.
Imagine travelling with liquids.

Afghan rugs. A reamer, a garlic press.
A funny cup. The "Porky Prime Cut" greetings etched in the lead-off grooves,
When not only did you listen to records,
You held them up to the light and read them.