Thursday, April 13, 2006

* amor vincit omnia *

When Ho Chi Minh Went To Paris

When Ho Chi Minh went
to Paris
he rented a room for twenty
five years. He did not
learn to smoke
filterless cigarettes or drink
red red wine or wear
all black with panache
and a beret.

When people asked Ho
Chi Minh why
he was in Paris he had
no ready reply
as he was a sailor
not a schoolteacher and his
father knew
no French.

No one knows if Ho Chi
Minh was a fan of
the NFL: By the time
the Dolphins had their undefeated
season, Ho had been
dead for three years.

There are no dolphins
in Northern Vietnam. No one
wears berets.
Red wine is not
in fashion. Ho Chi Minh
missed out on
quite a lot.

12 April 2006


The muscles in my arms
strain and stretch and
never reach for you.

The muscle of my heart is
swollen with love
that leaks out through

ducts in my eyelids.

Muscles in my thighs shake and
quiver and will not
run to you.

My muscular
tongue aches with
all the things I will
never say.

11 January 2006
* amor vincit omnia *

Double Edge
Hello, My Name Is ADDerol TM

Often people tell me
when I’m on
I remember things even when I don’t write them down.
I interrupt less- them and myself, as I
am prone to “Oh, and...” conversations
which sometimes wander
back to where they started.
When I am insulting, it’s no longer
accidental, they say, and I ‘sequence’ better
which I’m not sure
what that means or if
sequencing better
is better
or other people only think
it’s better, and
better than what? is what
I’d like to ask.

It is true that while
on medication I
can listen to multiple conversations in
a room, attentive to
the bits that are of concern
to me instead of
staring blindly into
noise that washes all around me
as one giant auditory
and I do not
allow pork chops to burn
in the pan while
I sit two feet away
sorting mail
business cards or

I like that, but
I suspect the meds
may take away the essence
the vital vibrant differnce
that makes me who I am.
I worry about this, because
sidewalk seeths and roils
beneath my unmedicated gaze
air shimmers and
birds sparkle;
choking brown exhaust
is foul perfume tinged
with asphalt, grease
and motion.

I worry that the meds
will take away my poetry
and I wonder about people
who seem to like me better
when I’m on medication
and worry was it ever
they liked at all.

2 January 2006
* amor vincit omnia *

Jennie Says

I like chocolate
fresh cocoanut
red wine oystes and
silk stockings
silk chemises
but no panties at all
Italian leather shoes- soft!
Bandolino- don’t bother me
with Naturalizer or
(shudder) Hush Puppies
sandals or barefoot
bright red paint
on my pedicured toes.

Naked hands-
I should have hairline cracks
along my knuckles
by all rights but I use
moisturizer that runs
seventy six dollars
for a four ounce jar.
It’s pricey but it smells
My hair gets ‘done’ every
five weeks whether
it needs it or not.
Excuse me but you’ve
taken enough of my time:
the bubbles in my bath
are going flat.

12 April 2006


My name is Howard and I have seen
one hundred summers
and five
though the first five I don’t
remember anything about
and the next twenty or thirty
are pretty hazy as well and
to be fair I probably
couldn’t tell you what I had
for breakfast

Yesterday, I went
in my car-the new one- I get
a new one every three
years or so whether I want
one or not.They keep
getting stolen, because apparantly I
like cars that are
easy to steal. I go every day
in my car, almost. So far, I always
remember how to get back. Every
day I go out in my car except
when there’s bad weather.

When there’s bad weather, if it’s
snow, the little
girl next door- I say girl
because she could be my great-granddaughter though
she has children of her own and is
no girl by anybody’s standards, no, she’s
a hottie is what she is, but
I have to say ‘girl’ because if I say
what anybody else would say which is
‘hottie’ I’m a filthy old man which
is sort of charming when you’re as young as seventy
but once you top ninety seems to be distasteful, as though men over
ninety cease to be men, which we don’t. But I wander.
The little hottie
next door shovels off my walk and drive when it snows
so that I can go in my
car, the new one, and wave to her if she’s
standing on her porch.

If she’s on her porch, she sometimes
comes over to talk
and ask how I am doing, as well she might since if there’s
a procedure I haven’t had yet, I will
soon enough. Or she
might ask about my brother, or my sister-in-law
who live with me and should
be spry, being twenty years
my junior, each of them, but eighty-five’s still pretty old,
I guess. My voice comes out
as a wheezy croak that sounds
terrible even to me
and makes me out of breath as though
the only excercize I get is going
every day in my car and remembering
how to get back home. My name’s
Howard; what’s your name again?

February 2006

Sidewalk Popsicle
(Transitional Seven/Seventeen)

Salt box half full stood
lid agape ‘til November
when it disappeared

Salt trucks and snowplows
slumber on highway’s shoulder
waiting for a flake

Windblown ghostlings of
anticipatory salt
slither over road

Sidewalk popsicle
not even considering
beginning to melt

Northbound vees of geese
honking hint of change to come
breathless wait for melt

Warm storm spits and blows
frantic cherry petals fly
pink echos of snow

Pink light licks at day
soon worship bare feet and legs
honey petal skin

January/February 2006