“The poems I write use ordinary words to create extraorinary
images that in themselves have no inherent meaning.” ~L.G. Corey/yakov

The cupboard is empty,
the shoe unlaced,

and the dog has none.

Morning rolls over in bed
sucking her thumb.

And the cock crows thrice
and three blind mice
kneel to pray for the dead.

To pray for the dead
and lace their boots
and run for cover

when the cat, he comes
and away they run

at three O’clock in the morning.



My goal

in the poetry I write
is to use ordinary words
to create extraordinary images

(with no inherent meaning)

that leave the reader
bewildered and confused.

Like this one.


[Like T.S. Eliot, but without the footnotes]

“Marry a whore;
conceive bastard children;”

says the Lord,

“These leaves are full of bastard children,”
cries the peacock.

“So, too, this cleft in the rock,”
coos the dove.

“Then, bash their heads against the rock,”
sayeth the Lord.

“Walk them through the alley of bones,”
he says.

And having said it,
SOURCES: Hosea 1:2; Song of Solomon 2:14; T.S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton;” Psalms. 23:4 etc. Like T.S. Eliot, but without the footnotes.



like a flower
or death
or a detour in the road
to Shangri-La
or Mandalay
or the whales’ graveyard.

time is an abruption.
space, too.

also sidewalk cracks
and broken backs
and cockle shells
and silver bells
and pretty maids

all in a row.


Many days ago,

in the before-time,
before there were days
or time, or before-the-after,

when the mirror-that-does-not-shine
shone forth the fifty letters of the
unwritten, unread, unimaginable
name of the nameless, face of the faceless
unwritten, unread, unimaginable visitor
from the before-time, the after-time,
the time without purpose or poems
or the sound of finger nails
scratching at the bottom of the door
(if ever there was one)
and us, stillborn,
slipping and sliding on the floor
(on our bellies)
aborted from heaven with the angels
dancing on a pin, a needle, a flamenco,
a minuet in half time on the bass line,
and a penny for the bad boy
standing in the corner.
NOTE: Originally published in Kalyna: An International Journal of Literature (the Ukraine), 2015.


but moe.

always the third.
never the first or second.

(never enough)

never enough
for the starving child,
the hungry dog,
the angry god.

never enough
for the first or second,
but always enough
for the third.

always enough
for the third in line,
the last in line,
the first to jump
over the line.


not eenie;
not meenie;
not miney;

but moe.









Seeing, but unseen.
Hearing, but unheard.
Touching, but untouched.

Under the rock.
Under the woodpile
Under the leaf, the door.

I am here.
I am there.


In the golden cup,
In the stinking chalice.

The breath!
The breath!
In the breath!

I am in the breath.
In the mouth.
On the tongue.

I see, but cannot be seen;
hear, but cannot be heard;
touch, but cannot be touched.

I am what I am;
I am where I am;
I am who I am.

meet me at the river.


Coffee in the cup
and dead ants

on the kitchen counter.

Dishes in the sink
and a numb index finger

points to
piss on the carpet.

The angel has landed;

the angel has landed
and the door slammed shut

by a dirty hand.

“Whatever will be will be,”
announces the bearer of the dirty hand,

and crawls under the bed;

under the bed
and between the sheets
and across the ceiling
and down the walls
of the house

(the tiny house)
(the vacant house)
(the haunted house)

that Jack built.


a red balloon
knows nothing of blue
but only of red

(the delusion of red)

and trapped air,
trapped in latex

(a red latex balloon)

resisting the tether
of a length of string
tethered to the hand
of a dead child,

the delusion of a child,
the delusion of a hand,
the delusion of a red balloon.


“Every poem I write is intended as an assault on meaning.” ~L.G. Corey

three coins.
six sides.

care of the cow
brings good fortune.

mercy on the spider
spins fine old lace. 

But the earthworm in the window
augers misfortune

for the little fox
crossing the ice.

11;00 p.m.