Instructions, Post-Mortem


if there can be an antidote to lovesickeness
it is the three days spent splayed out on ones bed
tinkering with he lights in the room
and praying silently for death.

if you don’t spend long in there,
the time still seems to expand beyond all capacity
and you are left flooded in a
surplus of ageless minutes.

(one does not take three times as long to wake up in the morning.
one takes four.)
the hours taste like coffee.

at dinner it’s the same meal every day
lamb chops and something else you can’t taste
(in fact, you can’t taste any of it.)

in the light of day,
stock market men inquire about the rates of exchange
and the butchers barter over the sale of veal,
but you can’t put a price on anything.

the gardens behind ones house are like solitude
but they only mock it.
it is a mock solitude,
one not to be confused with the kind
spent gazing thru a soft sunlit window,
the eyes lost in an expression
we have no words for.

one may sit in the chair,
becoming absorbed in ones own thoughts
(but this leads to delirium.)

if one should desire to be cheerful,
putting on a smile can usually do the trick
in its ironical conceit
and is a marvelous deception
for those not aware of their outward expression.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

It’s the 1990’s and No One Really Cares who You Are


overheard at a party:

(“do you incite
or keep it all in your pants?”)

(“we are dealing with a woman here”)
it takes one to know one that i’m the best
and i can kiss.

you know, thanks to the mobile phone,
my girlfriend over there hears me from a thousand miles away
even if i’m on the tube.

i took sara along with me  (“can you see her in the corner over there?”)
if you get close enough to her she’ll tell you she’s a
pyromaniac with a taste for danger (“haha!”)
only last week she admits that it’s purely

it’s true;
last week i caught her
on the verge of a mental breakdown;
she faltered in the street wearing her
nightgown and she
finally walked back to the hotel and said
no one would really care if she
fell down.

then i yelled at her for about twenty minutes about
how idiotic she was being but
if she’d’ gone
i’d’ve said she was a wonderful woman.
(“she’s a real piece of ass”)

funny you mention it–
she takes hours and hours getting dressed for me
(“we all want the same things, eh?”)
but when she finally gets to the party she
stands to face the wall
and hopes for somebody else to turn up
(“or won’t–it’s still your call”).

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

A Passover Poem


there we sift into the cup
moses turned it into wine
he found
a shift in the chemical dust and swapping our
sea-like tendencies to meet the sun
and we made ourselves bread too quicky,
too quickly.
this summer i am looking forward to see-ing the
and the endless stream of honey running
thru it.

my cup is red like blood and
yours is white like white blood cells
can i have some of yours
to heal the wounds
i inflicted on those men
back in egypt?

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

I Humbly Asked, but She’d Already Gone


will you read out my story?
i aksed, as my hands noticed she would
rub her thumb against another girls hands in
comfort, and id bristle.

will you read out my story?
i asked, but she shrugged and said
maybe some other time,
but i could see she had no time,
what with the movie contracts and the
cars and cabs and the
smoking up neon-colored lights.

will you read out my story?
i asked, but she’d gone off to college
reading about gender politics and the history of
film and all she had ever read about my life
never existed.

clear eyes,
clear-eyed and wan,
and all the girls who spoke in poetry
scarsely changing hands;
i cannot enter an embrace with her soft voice
or nest with her garden of poems,
or remember the way her limbs fell like gossamer fans.
(will you?)

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry



(a found poem from Micheal Frayn’s play by the same title)

run down the road
in the sunlight
where the railway arches.

twilight is a garden.

you were barefoot on the street,
you were not a road for coffins.

I am an empty sky.

love used to fly
and overflow.
(some people kiss on in the bus.)

you’re all cold and dark.

the day light is facing the gardens.
the world is magical.

the emptiness came down like a pack of cards,
screaming with hunger.
Daisy eyes gaze at you.
(I always wanted you.)

in the real train station,
you wanted

we just sit and laugh, wide-eyed
(I’m sorry. I don’t know how laugh).

that woman is electricity.

cry and take a deep breath.

(I’m frightened of love)
I hold love letters.
that woman: you’ll see her.
(I’d touch you.)

you’re a beast.
(Daisy’s in love.)
I look at you,
you with the round eyes.
you are daylight.

I was in the woods.

(funny to see you on a walk
in silence
in the rain.)

I laugh about falling in love
in the rain.

he looked at you and forgot
love is just
a simple equation.

we laughed and couldn’t stop.
then she just left
and I don’t know why.

suddenly she opened the door and he was alive in his eyes.
the blood rose to her cheeks
and I can laugh again.
I should marry her
(oh yes I like you).
I see you cry in trees of green, walking in the night, still laughing.
I’m going to start a bonfire and break the dark
the appetite is monumental
and they move round each other
could you stop sprouting up in the garden,
standing in the rain?

You must be starving…I know you’re worrying about me.

I have been waiting for you.

things of changed.

get out of here.

you don’t know how to love.

HE left.
SHE left.

he held out a flower, wanting to be loved.
it was too late.

but it’s a beautiful day
and it’s summer,
I was happy!

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry 

I Don’t Eat as Much Food as I used to


i sat i realized i was being stubborn i was making myself cry
and i had many people to talk to and hold on to but i tried
not to be intrusive, like a spy

so i breathe easier today because i know what i want
and i breathe easier because there are no tears or fuss
and i behave mechanistically.

i am well oiled gears and i know what
i must consume to function:
there is food and water and fat and thin
but also the human skin on skin the contact intangible,
a nutrient i didn’t find on the cereal box.

i want to laugh today so i wander over to the saloon
my friends and their friend who i was too stupid to ignore
who sleeps in the afternoon.

the H20, aluminum, salt, brass nickel and tin,
i digest them and he tests them and tries them on his skin,
and i smile to face the faceless day and know where to begin.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

Stream of Consciousness 19: Pardon my French


Pastry where’s the thinking you eat chocolate like there’s no tomorrow
Wendy’s eaten three hamburgers this week my mouthful is stuffed where’s chicken where’s the turnkey I’m eating from sandwiches every day where’s pasta where’s lasagna where’s my mother’s baked goods

I miss the sky I miss crying I miss dying or wanting to feel like sh– where’s the pasta where’s mamma where’s tangos and having s– in the garden where’s my meals where’s the oregano where’s your hands on me where’s the lipstick I asked for where’s your angles sides on me and I’m probably going to throw up and these books list things like a laundry all the things you f——saw in Paris we don’t give a f— he says f— every other sentence and I thought he was a real weirdo he plays video games and curses three times a sentence but he’s good looking and he does accents what the fuck and he’s–

here’s to being single ha we’re only just five years older than five years ago that was when I dreamed about everything I was so f—— hopeful and where’s the glory in being single the easy self-gratification self-gratification my ass my ass can tell you we’re all going to hell, and there’s zero tolerance policy around here mister I hate to have to haze you but there are certain rules you do not break and Antoinette has better yet to come and eat and serve the meals get to it hup hup and old men on the f——bus It’s disgusting get some f—— manners, and he’s on the train he’s always on the f—— train get off already



What a man wants is quite opposite from what the air wants you to be
And I can assure you, eating from silver plates is fantastic in reality.
I make arrangements and I break them and I get things where I take them
And my many men are after all the money in my manor and I’m
Sitting by the fire laying golden eggs and cotton and my
Father’s making millions in a castle in brazotton
I say, wasn’t it sold off to that sailor from Southampton?
(If I get him we can clean him up and groom him in a mansion!)
Oh he’s picture perfect when he gets behind a glass display
And then maybe we’ll destroy his fame and say that he’s gone rotton
A scandal makes for worry and I’m never in a hurry
So I’ll dance and ride the trolley and meet men who call me dolly
There are lots of shabby shoppers but im surely something chicer
If you penny pinch you’ll know that stashing stock just makes you weaker
I am free, I am rich, and I wear a pretty stitch,
And I’ll sing a song for all your friends who wound up in a ditch,
We make friends, we drive cars, we stay late in all the bars,
If you think that I’m not happy, baby, I’m among the stars. (hey!)

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry



temporary dressings over temporary wounds.
we seek shelter in an abandon garden and
hope that we will take fruit. In a garden we see many faces often,
the father who takes no notice or the mother who stoops over the dandelions,
the friend who coddles the petunias like sisters and the grandmother who sits still.
we hold candles to the dahlias and when it gets cold, we hope they do not burn.
we hide and lick our wounds in the grass, wimpering and withering like pruned hands.

I held on to you because your voice was soft like a suede glove,
and I liked the unnabraisive hair you could brush up to my temples and say the
only way I could have met you was the only way I could have met you, and the way I could have held you was the only way I could have held you, and we would have
spun around in blurred green clusters where the bushes ran off to meet the sky and
sun ran off to meet your eyes, and the way the green houses flitted behind the dark shade of green like the house in the spring
and maybe I could if I stand here.

if I stand here in the green grass in the garden I will remember it as a footpath for soldiers who defend love, keep it in high regard and pay no heed to the
fashion of believing that all we say is trite anyway.

the slow stones are fawn beds for lovers, and the grass is coverlets for milk bodies,
and now and again the firs can pine away for you instead of me.
I may bend over sideways like the arches of a tended forest, my limbs over your limbs or the tree limbs
and patience is a virtue and you are a virtue. But patience is temporary and
burdens are temporary and so was the kiss, the kiss you gave me, too soft and cream, too negligible and sparse, unvaried and smoothing, holding not possessing and static not unstable. I can lie down for hours and notice that you are neither sleeping nor waking, just like the sound of birds flying is not availed to my ears but I trust it is there notwithstanding.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

The Last Time we Visited the Lake


An old poem I never published; after watching txf episode “mind’s eye”

When we reached the edge of the water
When we reached the edge of the pool
When the clams reached out to pinch my toes
And I think I was thinking of you

I could hear the false note in your consoling voice
The kind of thing you could sense with the sound turned off.
You’d be an angel but your face didn’t match up,
It was feigned, and terribly cold.

I was sure I was dreaming that morning,
Watching you by the dock near the pool
Facing the shoreline of water,
Piled neatly against the blue.

There you stood,
A magician of frugality
Trying to regain your composure,
Looking at me with disappointment
But the fragile, fragrant air was tripping up your movements,
And you paused,
To close your eyes
And erase
All else,
Smelling deeply,

When reached the edge of the water
You said
“This is the place”

I heard the false notes in your voice again, as you released
Sweet smelling words out into the air, to savor
But it was only just for show;
Just to admire their grace

You smiled a meager smile and looked to the water again,
As the boats heaved and creaked in their wooden cages.
We stood together, silent.
I was sure you were feeling some kind of secondhand pity,
But it was usually just a feeling.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry