The Love Bomb of J. Prufrock

vapors wander
under the door sill
smoke drifting insolently
from Magdalene’s cigarettes
in the hallway like a teenager at school
lacking Self-Awareness

the Terracotta Princess holds her head
in her hands and complains of migraines
in Winter stuck indoors and camphor smell
of wooden chests from Indonesia carved
with birds elephants tropical palms
hold our memories

we read our thumbnails like tea leaves
across the picture window wall of the sitting room
desperately brushing at the webs
that encapsulate sterile
lives once breathed
now only suffocate
in stillness scrolling
the Ether mesmerized
by the Ether swallowed
by the Ether

lost in addresses unknown
our unexplored paths rerouted to
numerical errors multiplied in chaos
as we count our digits and laugh at the irony

the Dominion knocks at the door
and lets himself in shivering from the cold
outside and shakes his wet raincoat on the living
room rug with the abandon of an overzealous Dane

circles the dining room table
weary from journeys taken unsolicited
but lucrative just the same if you’re a lost
soul and he’s certainly a lost soul lacking

come in
make yourself at home
I ready a cup of fresh ground
Moka from the stainless steel pot
and sweeten it to taste and offer it along with
the finest French creme pastry you can buy
wrapped in cellophane

it isn’t much and may not
go well with the Sumatran
but it’s all we’ve got our
last pennies gone
to the offering

god is pleased
but we are not
—the Terracotta
Princess rolls her eyes
and I in my uncertainty query
the Oracle to make sure Shakespeare
agrees and the script is canon

for I am,
what I am, Or
am I?


These American Boulevards



firing up
quantum rockets
listen to the step step
of cracks in cosmic emptiness
the divisions in the tarmac
of life along Route 66
Paradise and Sunset
these Boulevards
—a New Revival
of the Old West

cream green
on white
and big rubber
whitewalls padding
on asphalt radio juke
box doo wop bop

the heartfelt attacks
of teenage angst and aplomb
no change just brighter louder brassy
happy children must see god in the details
to wake from a tomorrow that will never come

transistors pop and fizz
an electronic dance on motherboard
bounce off radiator headlights and mud flaps
pinwheel tassels fly in the wind honk honk and smear
of bug on windshield’s tinted glass

beep beep!
sandals to the pedal
roaring with the swells
of mambo rhythms
noisy DJ babble
rock and Roll
and news

whistle of wind
squealing rubber
pounding pounding
bass and Gretsch on vinyl

one eye
peering at the
traffic light camera
waiting on the Rainbows
the Cimarrons and Buffaloes
of these American Boulevards

The Road to Damascus

The Sunday morning streets are quiet
except for the sound of the cold pavement. ~a pilgrimage

they say there’s a place in the
Sahara where you can buy Jeeps
ride into the desert all the way to

electronic billboards replace neon
fountains decorate Souqs
vendors entice you with the
spoils of early morning
devil’s horns
roast goat heads
fly covered dung heaps
and kefir washed Shish Barak

north past the palm circled Camelots
taxis weave in and out of traffic under the
towers of Babel through the
maddened crowds

enterprising Sumerian chariot drivers
scribble their fares on clay tablets
1,000 dinar will take you
to the Northern regions
of Damascus

urban sprawl and
the smell of industry
where concrete underpasses
open to a long silver ribbon between
snow-capped vistas and the
mountain passes of
the Moab

virgins bathe in that river
beneath the canyons
wave and say

you who travel the road to Salvation
the road to the land of the Saints
the road to the Sun where
Saint George once slew
the dragons of Zion; and
God now sleeps


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