Apparition Poem # 1112

“Fuck art let’s dance”
only we didn’t dance,
we fucked, and when
we fucked, it was like

dancing, and dancing
was like art, because
the climax was warm,
left us wanting more—

how can I know this
dancer from the dance?
O brightening glance,
how tight the dance

was, and the sense that
pure peace forever was
where it had to end for
both of us, only your

version was me dead,
after I had permanently
died inside you like the
male spider always does—

Pull me towards you—
woven color patterns
create waves beneath
us, tears buoy bodies

to a state beyond “one”
into meshed silk webs—
not every pull is gravitational—
as two spiders float upwards,

I say to you (as we multiply
beyond ourselves) “those
two are a bit much, their
sixteen legs making love”


This Isn't History, It's an Episode

My story is pretty simple—

Because I couldn’t finish a novel
My life begins

In a nation that does not exist yet

The icon & I weren’t personally close
Our family fled their orchards—

From medieval kabbalists
To 20th century refugees—

Our fury seems particularly apparent here

In a nation that does not exist yet

Where actors are hired to read scripts
& pretend
To be real people

My uncle told me—

This week’s parasha introduces a medium
For distinguishing truth
From falsehood—

That was my life

I was giving up
I was going back home

My uncle told me—

On the radio, things aren’t so simple

Leaving the icon to believe
One of two things—

A river was there
& it had two banks


Apparition Poem # 1088


Bottoms of barrels—
where I go to get “I”

words to represent
me, but constructs

constrict me down
to levels of humid

air sucked vacuum-
space out past sky,

“I” can never be “I”

from Apparition Poems (#1340)


Arms folded over chest
(as the man on the four of
Swords), she paints inside
a box-like carven space,
(dank edges only seen on
the outside), light filters in
from small square windows,
I hover over her, I’m this
that she wants, but what
she needs is to once again
feel what avalanches can’t
reach this head so full of
color, ribbons, blueness.


Try Submitting to 'Pider, A New Poetry/Art Mag


me and a friend are propping up an online journal under the title of 'Pider, and I am hoping you may be able to somehow spread that tid-bit of information around to those who would be interested. we are looking for puncher's fists, lost infantries of troops, hungry sleep.

one may send submissions of text, art, .mp3's... to:

what do ya think?



Otoliths 21 Is On Line Now

It has been 5 sweet years since Mark Young began putting out Otoliths. In that period of time he has been one of the most generous publisher/editors in the game.
It is my contention that effort such as his should be supported, so visit Otoliths and enjoy the fruits of Mark's labor.

My poems may be viewed at