Category Archives: Materialism

“I Have No Idea Who Told You That”

…a poem written some time ago…

“I Have No Idea Who Told You That”

You know, I have no idea who told you that,
But I can confidently tell you that your story’s old,
And if what you’ve said is true your anxieties will fold
So neatly, fit so sweetly in my pocket flat
Against the credit cards—abuse the telephone
A while, and leave me with it long enough to burn,
And on occasion, yes! a Tuesday afternoon, absurd
As it may seem, I’d love to see you sitting here alone,
With nothing else to do but tell me what
You think I want to hear, and I’ll be
Your mirror for the time it takes a tea
To make its bitter way from boiling hot
To tepid, and the distance of two cigarettes,
Before I’ve had enough, and leave with no regrets.

“Gold Bars Soar”


“Gold Bars Soar”

Gold bars soar that may or may not be there as dollars rise and fall
While doves and hawks lose feathers and the bourgeois stain
Their corporate tablecloths; numbers genuflect as mortgage rates
And candidates trade places in the spin. Who sleeps in the caterwaul;
Who stampedes for attention in the networks’ nightly call
To arms not heard since Boston; whose cotillions root for the notorious? Bait
And bombast never fails; the remedy is ever there and altogether late,
Meticulously timed by someone out to fill the stadia and malls
With never ending seasons’ greetings and wherewithal
To keep the vital signs of spinning polls and sardines at the gates,
Martin’s dream is deemed appropriate for the calendar and numbers integrate
The use of steroids and youthful thrall so no one drops the ball.
Who needs another change for heaven’s sake as one size fits all:
…And who really gives a damn with elections in the fall?



Kinesis for
The many who remain to wait
Silently for some benign constriction in the state
Of things, some sinister situation in the molten core
Of what it is they hope that God forgets to do or say.
Oh, yes. There are the borders to defend,
Concessions, lights within the processed prisms bend
And warp–so many suns are strong–schemes to calculate
With nests to build and chicks to feed,
but come the harvest, guests, the gathering
And celebration, the stories to be sold across the newsstands of the land,
The hands all sit here waiting with the others in the band
And ask themselves why grace and bounty seem so much like common tragedy
When in the once desired brilliance of the promised summer’s yield
The time for satisfaction never comes and the crop’s left in the field.

“Amazing Grace and Little Wonder”


“Amazing Grace and Little Wonder”

Amazing grace and little wonder who
It is that for a bowl of soup will squander future space and sovereignty
For a moment’s roaring respite; whose the chilling ring of casuistry
Devours precious primetime dinner hours on fecund ferial days. Few
If any fruits are plucked as potpourri for monumental business gambles
Gaining mastery of the blinding present, yes! perhaps, but whose the futures,
Fortunes and logistics strewn throughout the Milky Way with vouchers
On the run defined by wine and fine cuisine served with soundbite scrambles
In code for ever-mystic fiduciary streams, desiccating brooks
At source that damn the costs and swelling columns in the ledger?
Preferences, then, will legislate toward the whim; they pleasure
In the hidden barb, the ensemble, the purple caveat; the subtle lethal hook,
The crocheted will and hubris that, matched with folly,
supports acquired taste in all-consuming pain;
One need not wonder when and where the markets’
blisters will amaze, but if the boils’ll ever drain.

“They Move So Well”

“They Move So Well”

They move so well, they troll; they stroll
From this side of wagers to the other,
“Done!” and back again, smother
Goosesteps with mother’s deep affection, roll
The wholes in one and on a paper napkin map
Contingent strategies in sporting bars of habit and choice
Their viscosities of taste and controversy, simulated voices
Registering rapt concern from teleprompters
for whom it may concern that takes the rap
When leaders do not function as they should.
If what’s within the box is not ajar,
It will be soon, adagios of alarm
As phantoms masked in mortgages, just as whales, must surface
By the waters of eternal Babylon to their height in purpose.

“I’m Not So Cavalier”


“I’m Not So Cavalier”

I’m not so cavalier, you see; I’ve heard, I’ve lent a hand and bowed
To acid rains and lurid wastes and elements stacked,
Deranged, spewed, sprawled and rearranged, and I’ve attacked
And married Buicks, Saabs, and Fords and I’m not so very proud;
My many homes are bought and sold with not a thought
To living in them. Mine eyes have seen the glory of a myriad of pulpits,
Certified accountants and a pride of priests whose pious culprits’
Books are cooked in scarlets, blood-gelt orders in their sanctities taught
To serve the venal equinox between the self-sequestered fetid clans
In every land who have no ticket, pass, nor ever need to walk
When they can ride, nor ride when they can darn the stocks
That fuel the jet streams’ markets, currencies, and family plans
To lengthen gas lines leading lambs to houses built more or less on sand;
Three coins tossed in every fountain is the trend
while the Fed and Humpty Dumpty transcend The Wall Street Journal briefly
just before they hit the fan.

4 T

“There Is a Oneness”


“There Is a Oneness”

There is a oneness in God, one sea, one reality
In all exigencies, and so it is that we may be forgiven
And promptly forgotten for want of pure imagination. In vanity, they who live in
Fear of all things independent, who recoil from continents bound by seas
Of visions circumcised in shibboleths; those who fear their kind and its Holy See
Of horror, elevated as the Host in the cacophony of leisure’s golden trumpets
on the page or silver screen; to these much is given, these perpetually driven.
Spent, they prefer the image of the albatross, the unicorn, what thrives in
Flight, in tears, now realised now immortalised in manuscripts of fantasy;
These of fact, these of fiction hoard seats at the banquet by dint of circumstance
As they huddle together in nights of simile and metaphor; laurels, the oak leaves
Crown their worried brows with scales of vicarious habit born of years of ease,
Forsworn by tedious cloning of the suns leaving nothing to life and chance.
Given, then in specious time or choice, both now please
Their phatic lioves, emphatic in numbers yet limpid in the slightest breeze.




Largesse and the aim is high, perhaps, but not so high
That all the world concedes the call
To such extremes as we must attain and not at all
So equally ordained to reach the loftiness of skies,
But weighed on level grounds prepared
To live and die within a tapestry
That may or may not be cause for apathy
Or ecstasy in swelling ranks on alabaster stairs
To the banks of realms we cannot see. Not first
Nor last among all men are those who line
The avenues, the pedestrian mists of teeming mankind
Spread as swarms in clouds throughout the world.  Minds
And hearts cannot address themselves to what will
Out in time, that every man deserves this sterling word,
This honour due to he who lives in spite of the absurd.                                                  He sees the world before him plump and peopled, stacked,
Ranged, catalogued, rough-strewn about on plates
Afloat on oceans of such magnitude that dates
And proper measurements are daily sacked.
He’s left the bilious tailings of the mind
To complaisant teachers who soon enough are caught
With nothing and even less  in the deluge of what is taught
Is given breath for long. Knowledge blinds
When faced with fresh discoveries played
In such a manner that cataloguers pay
Homage to pernicious publishers whose veracity is weighed
In volumes, guarantees and lose disclaimers of the day
That follow close on what were tablets of stone but the night before.
There are no facts but loose allusions, illusions of the heretofore.

“Seeking Solace”

“Seeking Solace”

Seeking solace in the subway’s plastic platitudes, I surmise
An early death and probabilities that all there is is timely. Signs are rife
With squawking cell phones,  stifling squadrons of flies and gnats consigned to fill the gaps, to circumscribe the flock; their unsuspecting victims arrive in time
To read the endless blur of burrow walls that pause for stations only; rumours then, of course, but certain and solidified as petrels fly
By aimlessly along the Green Line markiing obsolescent ends
In the beginnings of the day. They gather, confirmed and reassured
Here and there that no one rides to measure
Worth and distances in terms of métro signs and buskers’ stipends
Yet I clearly heard today the sound of earphones braying,
Gather and surmise,
Repent! The End is nigh, and all pneumatic trails point to promises that do not die but lead all living mothers here to wail”
Had I loitered one more mile along that lethal middle rail,
I surely would have witnessed what I sometime knew, that clouds
Of youth and smoke of elders’ ozone cannot read the billboard omens
scribbled randomly across the métro seats and tiles,
That here below all testimony fades before the printer’s ink has dried.



Legacies of passion bred are anger, isolation,

Milks and agèd wines of absolutes, the rites of self-pronunciation
Bridled only by the use of an abacus and an eager congregation
Of admirers, sycophants whose impatience as a disposition
Renders plaudits based in raw consensus and the mass;
Spores of imitation multiply in the moonbeam’s registration
As in the wonders of a single drop, all satisfaction
Grounded not so much in what is there, but crass
Exaggeration of importance brewed
From natural focus and the power of digits in a queue
Eliminating all that lies outside the droplet’s view
Of unabated force of arrogance in a living stew.
Take away the copyright, the licence, and the chit,
Remove the barriers, and all that’s left of passion is the writ.
Its spectres gathered inward from the months and years ahead.
I know my place in all of this and know it’s not beside my bed
But there among the orphaned and the dispossessed
That I address my prayer along the paths on which all crawl. Bred
To this and to the refuse and the residue of banquet halls,
I am a herald of the many visions only barely heard or weakly dreamed.
In times like these it is from these I must be weaned: we address what seems
And leave the rest to chance.  We bear cacophony within these stalls
And mask what’s left in history. Newborn luminaries here within my candle’s
Tower’s stout enough, will take the memory and melody through the thick
Of youth, the middle primes, and then, alas, no further. Though the wick
Be bound in massive waxen walls, the stand and handle
Well secured, today I am remembered and remember well the wounded womb
From which I came, and seek for nothing less than this within tomorrow’s tomb.