Table of Contents
Nine Poems
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintPanic Never-to-be-caught, Now, falter me. The reined-in horse neighing, wide-eyed, made to be still, not happy yet closer, Now, to you—to being alive. Dear Anger, get me past the girls’ gate beyond all that God-sap, honey of sex flowing, heavy in their veins.                             ˜ I’m moving beyond all I adored. Come with Brutal Awareness.
The Rules of Night Migration
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintBelieve this:  that they set their course by the Big Dipper’s rim, skirting its tin lip, the salt broth it ladles out.  That they sight along the ramrod back of Cepheus’ throne, down the rhinestone folds of Cassiopeia’s gown.                    Allow that they might navigate the headwaters of Draco’s crocodile tears, these good night sailors, reckoning                                   by their star compass.                        Watch, how Indigo Buntings—each its own feather-covered patch of daylight sky—turned loose under the planetarium’s false night, pass the test of the constellations.
Two Poems
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrint Iridescence Just when I’m most certain, an opposite intrudes. Walk with me. Here over the strand tracks confirm a presence until tidal sweep inundates impressions or scurries of sand abrade— ghosting our glyphs. A theorem, a belief: the in-between matters. Gapped by menace—cliff-fall, sea-surge—to devoutly fix an iridescent cloud, its droplets half-formed, prismed, or listen among the dunes where wind-hum resists bracketings of silence.
Four Poems
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrintAir-Breathing Life Sleeping beside you is like sharing the sheets with a fish reeled up on the boat deck the hook rooted firm in your angry, sweet mouth you twist and twist circles, spirals, your tail flaps and beats, slap, slap, slapping on the wooden planks I dodge your sharp scaly sides and wonder are you remembering a time when salt was your world and you didn’t want change, but gasped some strange new element.
“H” is for Hurricane
Have you ever seen a Weimaraner climb a chain link fence?
Subway Stories
I like the jumble of everyone being on the subway
The Stork
And if your kid won’t stop screaming, so what?
A Quiet Act of Strength
...on about her third day at work, she made her move.
On Swimming
...smell of chlorine and slick seal-like clinging of wet suits...
A Way With Cows
Tiny drifts of snow piling up...
...the final step in my post-Shane transformation.
All this happened, more or less
...a tremendous anticipation over his visit had built up...
Love Letters to My Father
I’d stashed the letters high in my hallway closet...
The Luckiest of All
What’s a bona fide Yankee doing in the ritz and techno-fueled glitz of Miami...
Swallowing the Worm
She’s a girl whose name I will never know.
In the Style of Decadence
Richard is already inviting two, pale, goth lovelies to join us...
Passages and Objectivity in Brooklyn
unease and relief
Jessica Dobson
“Somebody got hisself a crush..."
At the Pushkin Graveyard
The owner’s only treasure was his son...
...there’s always tomorrow.
Pink Flamingoes
Faster than a seagull diving for a potato chip...
Cooking for Tango
“Why no husband,” she asks.
Reality — What a Concept
The Long Way Home
Leon Reid IV’s Tourist-In-Chief Takes Manhattan
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrint This past October, public artist Leon Reid IV’s latest project “Tourist-in-Chief” was selected for realization by the 2011 Art In Odd Places festival.  For one day, Reid transformed the classical equestrian statue of George Washington located in Union Square, NYC into a contemporary monument to tourism. Washington’s look was updated through the use of large scale props – such as an “I Love NY” hat, a camera, subway map, and shopping bags – to better reflect the current social climate of Union Square Park while also sparking people’s curiosity as to what Washington’s role was in New York City history. 
This Will Not End Well: The Drawings of David Poolman
Share:FacebookTwitterLinkedinTumblrPrint Subtly rendered graphite musings surrounded by vast areas of white paper, the drawings of David Poolman contain both an aching sweetness and a sense of foreboding.  What I want to say – but shouldn’t – is that the work is pathetic, in the most impressive of ways.  It inspires a quiet sense of empathy, the source of which is not entirely nameable.
Love in Love
My reasons for wanting to become Catholic were far more complex.