poems

It's been another good year. I pitchfork my poems into the air over and over until the black grains of letters pile up into never before thought of things. All winter I'll pound them into dust and bake from that the black bread of meaning which is leavened by death and is its source and...

The Teddy boy, all rebel cool circa 1956 in skinny jeans and biker boots, insolent, tough, the image mean, the attitude like Jimmy Dean posed by a street lamp in leather. The poems mapped the metaphysical constraints of finding in the real a car-buffed resolution won with the tricky scoping of a...