divinity poetry war

The Maid of Orléans

in the twelfth year

of her peasant girl existence

Joan of Arc

saw god before her eyes

asking her to wage war

for the good of France

to rescue her people from their strife

she believed

she swayed a king

she kissed her sword

she kicked some ass

she achieved the impossible

she paid with her burning life

she became a saint at 20

her ending irrelevant as smoke rise

the point is

she had the courage

to stand

and fucking fight


(written for Manny Feuerberg)

confections Europe poetry politics


how fitting

the etymology of the word


the 18th century French

derived from the Latin


as there has never been enough

of you

or France

to go around

art Europe history love poetry



it is a failing

of my English


but some men

have an enticing way

of looking

like a war

worth losing.

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the year i carried a copy of ferlinghetti’s book poetry as insurgent art like a pentecostal carries and twists their bible

i saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
thoughts of kissing me
sleep on disreputable futons
show up at hotel room doors

just about the time
one of my gods said
i was coming close to my

but i’m nowhere in proximity
upping the ante is perhaps required
my addictions too mitigated by motherhood
and the yolk of practicality

i’m not lesbian enough
i’m not disenfranchised
i’ve never been to france
i’ve never given anyone a hand job for a grant
ted hughes has not yet abandoned me

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the sun is exploding

and my drama queen persona has worn thin
my legends are in france begging their gods to shit truffles
their german wives to make amends
and i


this humble poet
i am so glad
to see it end

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

apocalypse noir

never fall in love
with a frenchman
who looks like
a handsome lumberjack

but always listen
to his opinions
about literature

paris is burning
haiti is dead
new orleans is under water

my marie laveau paper dolls
are casting voo doo spells
upon the living

i have so much to read
before the world ends

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing


as a man
lays dying
it’s not god he asks for
it’s mama

*For Frankie DeVita from Brooklyn

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends


i should have listened to her
when she said
you bore the saddest eyes
she had ever seen

the sort which have a way
of turning eyes looking into them
to the same shape


the painter standing on a french street at night

your journal entry reads mid-september, 1888

we sit this evening at a table enchanted

two wrought iron chairs pulled too closely together

you document our travels in your leather book as i compose poetry on pieces of blank sheet music sonnets become symphony
upon my grand staff

looking up as you tip the panama on your head playfully too far to the right you inquire as to the identity of my muse

i reveal with a wicked grin
it is the bearded auburn haired man standing in the north eastern corner of the place du forum i am calling it
the painter standing on a french street at night

observing transfixed

such an oddity to see an easel so late

we finish our truffles
whilst concocting theories
as to the picture being created

perhaps he was capturing the lingering majesty of the roman monument across the rue du palais or the horse drawn carriage
with it’s gauzy orange coachlights
certainly the bell tower of the church

but what was his brush to do to replicate
this particular starry night

instead of venturing as planned into the perfume oil shoppe glow next door we agree to go speak to the ethereal man

he begins to smile and slow his task as we approach
asking in second hand french
what he may do for us

we ask to see what he has painted thus far in the lantern light

certainement, as he stepped aside
gesturing us to stand where he had gazed from
it was then we saw his stunning beauteous perspective

it was a spell cast in oil paint

we first see the color of fire
the sulfur yellow of the cafe’s bricks pour shine melting from the lantern light

the reds of the oriental rugs beneath
the tables ran as lava underfoot

the coach and tower we wondered about are in the distance
but we notice he has chosen to omit the stone relic of another empire’s gods

how miraculous that he had managed to perfectly recreate the night sky without the color black his violet blue universe studded with firefly yellow stars

the paving stones of the arles street
became pink and lilac
as the people strolled along
through the oil on canvas

we tell him thank you for the honor of viewing his work

he bows his head
humbled by our admiration
we three warmly exchange names
his is vincent

before we depart, he asks for another moment

kindly look closer he asks

we oblige

we see ourselves sitting under the illuminated gables of his genius sipping coffee and writing poetry
about the colors within

cafe terrace at night