Risk It Triptych

A knife
on the counter
tempts me to reach for it,
to stab my own fear in the gut
by choice.

Let’s pitch
tents with toothpicks
and Silly Putty and
string from old kites we never got
to use.

What if
I were to spend
a year on the island
to speak to ghosts of beach rose hips

How ‘bout a Coin

How I
wanted to be
a coin diver calling
to steamship ferry passengers

Oak Bluffs
on a hot day
in July, the sixties
were winding down, filled with rusted

But my
mother said no.
I learned to hold my breath
for ages underwater in

My ears
couldn’t handle
the pressure. Jellyfish
stings. Heads nor tails, not my story
to tell.

Reflections of an Unprepared Hippie Poet (or, Dancing Barefoot Along the Legal Lethal Divide)

no shoes, no shirt,
no service. Remember
no trees, no lungs, no pen, no mask,
no life.

American Pyro: F’n Fireworks

Hiss. Bang. Flash. Toxic
residue especially from the color
green. Don’t blame the dogs
for running away.

Another night
of thunder and lightning
without rain.
Where’s my thundershirt?

Cherry bombs in the alley.
M-80s down the subway stairs.
What are we celebrating?
Freedom. Boredom. Gunpowder. Really?

The sky needs no adornment.
The earth, no more wounds.