The Spoon


Spoon fed sweet comfort

In our mouths can make us doze 

Which feels so nice


Like lying on pillows in a limo  

Being driven, in our softest dreams,

Along a gorgeous path 


To a bed where a smile and soothing words   

Cross any missing meaning 

Behind our backs.


                              Poetry Pacific, 2013




There are no real solids and Buckminister Fuller

Explained that love is a kind of metaphysical gravity

So, as love begins, being swells and surges,

Like when you emerged from foam onto silica,

And I emitted an oscillation through space time,

Along with a transfer of energy, and you waved back.

                                                   The New Poet, 2013


Jim Morrison


Acid in the bloodstream.

My skeleton melts.

I go through the window.

I will not fear the wind.

Passengers snap off

Vertebrae as I go.    


                   Main Street Rag, 2016






在第一个轮回里我当个胡萝卜,享受肥沃的泥土,跟附近的西红柿说一点闲话。其实,很多人喜欢欣赏植物的生活方式。比如当个高尚的黄瓜,狡诈的蘑菇,或者一个诚实的西兰花- 这真是一种狂喜。







Consider this word.

It once meant a small room

Constructed for the dedication of a life to prayer,

Contemplation of the infinite, and our links to other beings.


It now means a small group 

Serving a lethal institution.  And a cage for a life serving time.

And the smallest living unit that can survive in an environment

Where captivity leads to the endless repetition of stereotypical behavior.


Consider the combination 

Of these ideas, these spectacles for the mind, 

These motley beasts competing

To captivate an audience- 


A menagerie of concepts becoming a zoo, 

Its organic habitats stocked with beasts  

Labeled simply for soothing viewing. 

Minds that are cells that cannot escape themselves.


                        Another Chicago Magazine, Sept 2020





Grammar Me Not



There was once this word

That was hot

Then only got hotter

And burnt 

Through the paper it was written on

Yelling itself over and over again

At all the other cool calm quite

Sensible terms

Still on the same page

The rational words who had stable gigs 

In respectable stories

News articles academic journals and Post It notes

The words who seemed so warm so willing

To get used

Defined and classified 

Looked up and marched out

But this word refused to be used

So it marched off  

Saying that it meant everything

That once had meaning in the world.


          Another Chicago Magazine, Sept 2020




                            I have taken an experimental approach to this question.

                                            Benjamin Libet         





                                                               And stories

                                                                             are the sum of us, or (‘…acts are preceded by a specific electrical change in the brain (the ‘readiness potential’, RP) that begins 550 ms before the act.’


Or think of the sand, and plastic forks, 

Mushrooms, and fried potatoes- your children eating

At that picnic with friends, the conversation, what you started to think about


‘Human subjects became aware of intention to act 350-400 ms after RP starts…’


While walking, looking at the trees, 

The shadows, what you said about your life, the feelings

You had and the things you felt but couldn’t say, or wouldn’t, or did


‘As far back as Leibniz it was pointed out that if one looked into the brain with a full knowledge of its physical makeup and nerve cell activities, one would see nothing that describes subjective experience.’ 


                                                                                                                                      ) none of it is personal  


                                                               Another Chicago Magazine, Sept 2020


To The Story of My Life:


Why have you left me?   

If you think I misused you, show me how-

Did I confuse your plot, defuse your drama,

Or defect into another genre?  No, and now


I am just a single word, alone in an empty book

Even the footnotes have flown away 

Even the title has departed

And my single word is no pun at all.


But I tell you, you are not the only story in the world!  

I could be in Hamlet!  

I could be in King Lear!  

I could be in Othello!  I’ve had offers!  


However, we have already been together 

On so many endeavours

And for so many years 

That we are almost one.  


If you come back, if you accept my repentance, 

I will serve my function, your diction and your tone,

I will stick to the script, making your words my sentence,

And your fiction my own.

                              Angle, 2013




故事,你跑到哪里去啊? 你为什么离开了我? 我是否虐待了你?破坏你的情

节的逻辑呢? 不走向你必然的结论? 还是你以为我对你不忠,跟其它的故事发生



现在我只是一个单独的字在一本空白的书。。。每天我没事做, 我只能

从第一页跑到第二百页, 连一个卑贱的标点符号都没有。。


我跟你说,你不是世界上唯一个故事! 我会当汉姆雷特!我会当李尔王!






Crazy Grandma Rising



Crazy grandma says her planet’s closed,

And shut the door behind you.  


She is past being calmed  


By doctors music nurses children 

That will sit with her and read with her, 

Sounding out the words she slurs


And those she has forgotten.  


They are past her or she is past them

Past Citalopram and Olanzapine 

Past toothbrushing and toileting

These meals this home this shit.  This calming music


Before death so she storms out bird     


ice like 


Hop flap 

Flying through the winter breeze 

Over a bridge


Into a café,

Where she sits, shivers, and inhales, 

Smiling gently though the shelter of her shut eyes.  


Then she lets her vision fly out 

And watches it flapping away

As she blinks, 

Clawing with her eyes at the world.

                            American Journal of Poetry, 2017



Walking up a mountain, drunk on the lack of three days sleep


Vines slowly embrace the veins of cracked marble

And the rocks, and this whole hillside of

Fish soup merchants, as on the walkway of this mountain

Tiny children dragged by mothers

Drag the leashes of their tongues, and there are

The wrinkled undereyes of old men in baggy cotton,

Fanning themselves, and they are old enough

Not to know what to think anymore, 

There is the pendulum clinking of pockets,

Bottles emptying mouths,

Mountain people eating, sitting on mats on grass on stones,

A woman slowly drinking coffee and she has ragged hair

(Why are you describing my hair? she asks)

She is picking the grass,

And I walk up this mountain,

People move in and out of doors,

Behind a slowly shutting door a hand moves on a curtain,

As the rocks

On the side of this mountain darken,

The night weaving back windows 

Onto all our houses, and there is that yelling,

What is it, let’s

Yell, all of us, let’s buy fish soup, let’s sit on our roofs,

On this mountain, where is this mountain,

And where are you,

Let’s drink on Tuesday,

As it can be Tuesday, as it can be tomorrow or yesterday or today,

So tell me old men sitting on the steps tell me where

Where is that trap door?


                  Sanskrit, 1990s


Let's Have A Feeling



Angry just refuses to be angry.

I’m finally happy, angry says, 

Now I know that one must accept oneself.


But you’re not accepting yourself,

Acceptance says, you’re becoming me,

Which is making me become angry.


And of course happy is not happy –

You’re not me either! she yells,

I’ve never been angry! I’m happy! 


                        December 2016, Lighten Up Online




The Dinner Party



Inside many self-fulfilling heads 

The prophesy of a dinner party 

Sets its own table.


Pubescent gremlins groom.

Middle-aged monsters in wigs wield status-stuffed cheesecakes.

Immortal banker frogs shuffle and deal the invitations.


Small tells begin to mark the dinner table,

Assigning seats and sides 

For the food fight of secrets signs.


Then everyone slips into the peel of their human form,

Trips into their house, closes the door forever, and sings for food, 

Winking out through the bars and webs of tact.


             Literary Juice, 2012, nominated for Pushcart Prize

Night of the Living Head


                            The educated differ from the uneducated as much as the living from the dead.




You thought you were just going through the life

Of a university student-

Through the grind of homework, the game of grades, 

A dorm room of sex and squalor

When one day that learning paid off, you awoke,

And the world revealed itself to you in a flash

And you saw souls trapped in textbooks,

Gothic ghosts in a latte séance summoning themselves,

The class conflicts of the existential underworld 

Deconstructed by graduate ghouls,

Office imps in cubicle tombs stapling the autopsies of lives,

And the mobs of zombies in rabid fraternities hunting for juicy flesh-

So to survive you pretended to be one of them,

Mastered the mask and put in your mime

Until one day that you found yourself

Drooling, rotting, growling in frustration,

Walking with your head half off

Your body contorted and tweaking

Leaking all over yourself

Crying down the endless hallways with bloodshot eyes,

Pounding on vending machines and yelling at them, pleading,

Waiting for a response, a signal, a sign

Doing anything to let the Machine know that it had taken your coin

While you searched, quested for the real, the truly alive,

For something, anything to gnaw on-

Until the next day you awoke, resigned

To drag your headache in with the other ironic corpses

Being hoarded with psychic prods into horrific halls

To sit below bow-tied vampires

These professors on podiums that promoted Descartes

And Cartesian doubt about your existence 

Which was much too easy for you particularly

Having become quite the philosophical zombie already.

                                 Red Fez, 2012


Table Manners


I step into a vanilla restaurant 

To eat with my eyes

And start chewing on the waiter

Who is coming with some tenderizer.


He grills me with a smile

That wants both well-cooked and soft like tofu

But only leaves me scrambling hard

From the tasteless commerce in his sweetened calefaction.


Then he continues with the artificial flavor 

In crunching a query through his teeth

And I tell him I’ll climb a vodka on the rocks

And make it tall cause I’m thirsty for a change of music.


Then he withdraws

While sprouting garnish and spouting it

With puffery into a bunch of crockery

So I sharp eye him a skewer:


Enough already with kneading my dough

You’ll get your bread on the table

If you play your meat straight and bring me my drink.

Then, in a clearer sauce, I ask him to etc. it over and please thank you.


So when the waiter jaunts back with my drink

He uncorks the specials in a translucid tone

Of vegetative calmness with a manipulative dressing

Of very salty syllables.


Then, with a caustic bow, 

He tells me to order my expectations

By the number.  And he’ll return.

So I sit with my music and ponder my choices,


Hearing the overhead fan as it spins hello, hello and hello,

And I tell it thank you for the softer touch,

And I’ll try not to stare at your pole dance,

Hoping at least that can pass for table manners.

                   Penny Ante Feud, 2014