“Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a cigar….”

drunk on dandelions,
on thistle juice,
and bubbling water from
the mouths of mermaids

floating belly up,
humming absentmindedly
tunes from


for all the dying children
floating out to sea
in pea-green boats,
their hair on fire.

But Mahler was a Jew, after all,
and, therefore, knew too well
about the death of children
floating out to sea in pea-green boats,

their hair on fire, clutching at
the smoky candle end of time.

~May 19, 2016


bottles break
on sidewalk cracks.

(glass bottles breaking)

and break the backs
of die polizei
behind the billboard,


to the tune of
Hearts & Flowers
from a passing spaceship
on its way to disneyland.

but they shall not pass this way again
(and again and again and again)
these little greening men
with a taste for peeping

tom, tom, the baker’s son,
dead and gone and buried

in a field of hearts and flowers
and the last angry gasps

of die polizei.

~May 16, 2016


“…don’t you know who that Fat Lady really is? … Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It’s Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.” ― J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey

say nothing
when the bell rings
or the fat lady sings

or the boy falls into the well.

their day will come,
their day will go,
leaving a trail of breadcrumbs
behind them.

for Baba Yaga
to eat and follow
while she tracks their spoor

and sucks her thumb.


NOTE: From the fourth of the four-volume collection of my complete works, SHARDS OF GLASS, to be published in late 2016 by Platypus Press, Ltd. (England).




Step here.
Trip there.

Sniff dirt.
Eat dirt.

Remove the cinder
from your eye.

Seeing but unseen,
moving but unmoved,
see and move
among the unmarked graves
of unknown tubers,

buried fingernails,

burned hair,
burned feathers,
burned waters.

Smoke of altar incense.