we were a strict Catholic family

20 10 2016


Spade meets the fatman

1 10 2016

Spade meets the fatman

smile slash’d spade’s face.
laughter gargled through the fatman’s
“the black bird fills the heart
with need, buries young
boys under dead leaves,
molests virgins in naked sleep,
shakes the voice that soothes the soul,
is the world spent, the word mute,
time stilled and waiting…”
outside there was a crash
both men turned. the door flew
open. the wind fell inside.

download The Black Bird

The Maltese Falcon, one of my favourite films and books, is the core of this book. The Black Bird is about celebrity. About the self. Lost in the layers of masks, the actor, the role, the husband, the man.


Monica Gold

6 09 2016

Monica Gold

I dream

an imitation

of her eyes opening

dancing in her smile.

Some women

are more beautiful

than they could possibly pretend.


download SOMEWHERE IN THE 1970S

A group of poems written about a woman with whom I was involved. (That sounds so detached.) I thought that we might get married in Japan. But then I hesitated. Didn’t ask her. She returned to her husband, had two kids, got divorced. I hope she has found some peace.

Somewhere in the 1970s


23 07 2016


Another piece from my upcoming (if i ever get off my ass and finish) graphic like novel called “Property”.


18 07 2016


a piece from a new novel I’ve been working on called “Property”.


crucifixion of a pair of jeans…

23 06 2016

Crucifixion of a Pair of Jeans

End of the Celebration

1 06 2016

End of the Celebration

Long ago. In a passed life. Before the flood. Of Ivory soap commercials. When Jack Benny was still doing guest spots. When the cement was being mixed. And the bricks laid. The Berlin Wall. Before the Beatles. And the micro chiiiip. When the Russians sent a 2 headed dog around the planet. To mark its territory. I was promised happiness.

I found this promise. On the back of a soggy box of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes. My father explained happiness. As he dipped his Marguerite cigar. In the yellow. Yoke. Twins. Happiness and Paradise. And a numbered Swiss bank account. Established by an Irish Poet. Who later died of alcoholism. I remembered that promise. Made so long ago. When I met Monica. I had found happiness. No one mentioned anything about it being temporary.

Like a Buick through the Lincoln Tunnel. Thoughts passed through my head. We sat in the Hayloft. A fancy French restaurant. It was my birthday. The waiters gathered in front of our table and began singing ‘Happy Birthday’. In French. It was the specialty of the house. I could feel it. There was something. Ominous in the air.

I whispered to the soup. Monica asked if it was too hot. I pointed out that I was putting the question. Does love ever win out? Like the Christians in the coliseum. Yawning into the mouths of the lions. Gestures are a buffer against pain. She was leaving. Melancholy. Happiness’s fare…



I was a street poet. Talked, ranted, rhymed about the people I knew on Church Street. Everything had pace. Prose poems. And they were long. Words, thoughts, came at you from every direction. It was like the traffic.