Forthcoming book – Unburial!

[art by beatriz crespo]

I’ve waited a few weeks before going public, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. But, as they say, this is happening. My first book of poems, unburial, will be released by Kelsay Books/Aldrich Press in 2020! To say this is a dream come true is an understatement, as anyone who has ever put together – and shopped around – a first manuscript can tell you.

You can read some of the published material from the book here, here and here. Others are forthcoming from Palette Poetry and Baltimore Review – quite appropriately, as some of the poems in the book take place in – you guessed it – Baltimore.

I’ll be posting updates as more information becomes available: cover art, release date, book party, etc…stappiamo lo champagne!!

Still Life With City

Well, after 17 years, my 9/11 poem “Still Life With City” has found a home at Verse-Virtual.

Our terrible future has just arrived.
The telephone now rings ominously
as we falter, scanning briefly a sky
of asphalt gray, frightened what we seek. 

As I wrote in the note to the poem, “it was the first poem I ever wrote that felt like a real poem, where I wasn’t merely aping the poets I read but was building on their work and adding something of my own.” I’ve been told by a friend from that time that she has kept a piece of office stationery that planed down in her neighborhood in Brooklyn, sprinkled through with tiny shards of glass, since that day. She says it still smells like the air on 9/11, the air of death. The poem continues:

The air outside seems somehow to have died
as claustrophobic clouds conceal the week.

Those lines were written in the days after the event, surrounded by the poisonous clouds above Manhattan. In contrast to “On Maujer St.“, which was written 16 years after, this was contemporaneous with the event.

The larger point is this: it was this poem that convinced me I, too, could write poetry – that I  was cut out not only to imitate but also to create (I’ll leave judgement of its poetic merits to others more competent.) It was a breaking through, so to speak. My hope is that the reader is transported for a brief minute into the shoes of those who walked the torn and broken city on that awful day, forgetful of the past, fearful in the present, uncertain what future awaited them.

On Maujer St.

My poem “On Maujer St.” went up at the Flatbush Review this week. It was 18 years in the making! Poems often work that way, gestating inside you silently until – boom! – they find words in a burst of energy like an explosion. “Maujer St.” is an attempt to record, post-facto, the day of a real explosion – the one that shook New York City (and the world) on Sept. 11, 2001. Lots of poets flourishing now were still children then, much as I was a child during the Reagan administration. But I was on the eve of my 27th birthday, and it turned out to be one of those formative events in my life, a Where were you when…? kind of event.

At the time Maujer St. was a no-man’s land on the edge of Bushwick, sparsely populated with rickety old tenements and abandoned factory buildings, the kind of place you’d stop your car to empty out your trash in the street, then drive off. It looked like there should be pushcarts, apple-sellers, horses…it was also the exact block on which – a decade after I moved out – a terrible multiple homicide would take place. So, yeah, I’d say Maujer St. has a grim little history at this point.

Here is the beginning of the poem. I’m trying to recreate a sense of claustrophobia, of paranoia, which was the dominant sensation. Also: the incomprehensibility of what was happening. Nobody had any idea what was actually going on, what might happen next or where it all might lead. In hindsight, I’d say we’re still living in the aftermath of those events.

“On Maujer St.”

On Maujer St. we watched the smoke
swell like a genie from the East 
swallow the city, grope the air,
disturb intelligence. The beast
came menacingly, probingly;
its gaseous, tentacular arms
mushroomed indeterminately
into the blue. Sirens, alarms.

(from Flatbush Review)



I started my blog way back in March, 2009. At the time blogging was in full-swing and it seemed like a good way to engage with the online world. It was. I wrote about anything that came to mind, sometimes multiple times a day. Those things often came down to politics and religion, with a smattering of poetry and book talk. It was never a popular blog, and it never had any such pretensions. After all, that was the point of blogs — just this little private space in the void where one could talk about anything from cats to favorite bands or share a poem they liked or a stupid meme. Some blogs became popular, but most probably died quiet deaths.

This blog very nearly perished silently on more than one occasion. There have been years when I never logged on, lost my password, then got it back only to learn that the dashboard had changed so dramatically I no longer knew how to write a simple post. But it held on. To celebrate its 10th birthday, I’ve upgraded it to an actual website!

Let’s say I got tired of the unwanted advertisements cluttering every post. Anyway, I’ve spent the last few days updating the pages, removing some of the junk, and making it easier to navigate for anyone inclined to do so. The Home page shows my poetry, with titles of my published works and links to the journals that have published them. Something of Myself offers a bit of personal history. Contact has my contact information, if you’d like to get in touch with me. I use Twitter, not Facebook. If you want to get social, please follow me there.

I wish I could say If you’d like signed copies of my latest book, you can order them directly, but I don’t have any such book to proffer. Maybe one day. I’ve got multiple projects in the works. Stay tuned!

Dear Cuck

It’s been an interesting year so far. I have a couple of posts to write in order to catch up. My poem “Dear Cuck” was published in Rattle 62 – my first on-paper publication in seven years! The poem went up last month on the website; you can read it here. It’s an effort to deal with a nasty email I received. Some friends have praised it, while others have told me it was a mistake to have written it at all. There is a longish note I tacked on to the poem, which gives some context. I suggest they be read side by side.

Dear Cuck

“Dear cuck,” the queer email began,
“your verses are a monument
to doggerel. You are a man
spawned in an estaminet,
likely a faggot, ass-for-rent,
Jew or Jew-lover with a plan
to wrong what’s right. Perverse & bent,
your soulless writing is a stain
on what is proper, sound, upright.
You do not know me, but I know
your kind. As Uncle Ez, our light,
wrote, ‘Usury is cancer.’ Blow
my eight-inch cock. I’ll come for you
with tiki torch on seder night,
throw you from your bedroom window.
Daddy says, ‘Might makes white makes right.’”

New Year’s Eve


There is a new poem of mine up at Verse-Virtual called “New Year’s Eve”. It’s the first poem I wrote in 2019, and I wrote in on New Year’s morning. I figured if I could crank out a poem with a slight hangover, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad year after all.

The poem was suggested to me while watching my daughter and her friend playing among the smoking ruins of neighborhood fireworks. Where we live, people set off their own outside their homes, in the streets, cheap and awful-smelling contraptions that create a haze and sting the eyes. But the girls’ curiosity was as if an alien spacecraft had just crash-landed in the backyard. That interested me more than the bright lights.

New Year’s Eve

Tonight we watched the lanterns rise
up through the black and flinty air
as neon blossoms lit the skies.
We squinted in the smoky glare

of cheap contraptions struck & burned
like matchsticks in the littered street.
A pinwheel sputtered, lifted, turned
about, a pyrotechnic feat

of ancient alchemy – it flew
a foot or two, then comically
crashed in a plot of grass, where two
children approached it cautiously

as if it were a UFO
portending unknown auguries
or sizzling in the afterglow
of unavoidable demise.

Cat Person

I have a recent sonnet up at the The Road Not Taken – A Journal of Formal Poetry. It’s a sonnet about my cat, Katniss. Many years ago I wrote a sonnet to my first cat, Ninotchka. Something about cats inspires sonnets in me – it seems an appropriate form to celebrate feline magnificence.

The poem has nothing at all to do with the story by the same name, published in the New Yorker. In fact, I’ve never read the story, which even has its own Wikipedia page for some reason. It’s just an appreciation of my furry friend, as if anything more were needed or required of a poem.

One of the main reasons I write poetry is to fix a moment, event, or feeling in time so it doesn’t disappear forever. I write against forgetting, against forgetfulness, against oblivion. This is the driving force behind my writing. I hope that something may endure after time has ravaged all the rest. Shakespeare had this in mind when he wrote his Sonnet 55. “Not marble, nor the guilded monuments / of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme.” It’s always been one of my favorites.

Cat Person

It‘s not that I love cats. I love my cat,
the way she pierces me with her clear eyes
and bites when she‘s excited, how her belly
fat feels in my hands & her domestic size
so perfectly selected for my palm
my fingers engineered to navigate her
haunches that lift and shiver, sway and roam
free as the trip-hop cadence of her purr.
I love the way she disappears for hours
materializing when we sprinkle food
into her dish. I love her haughty, proud
imperious demeanor as she glowers
slighted by some lack in our attention –
real or perceived – requiring intervention.

Interview with Myself

I’ve always wondered what it might be like to be interviewed.

Image result for pioneer hotel bowery
Not quite what the Bowery looked like when I arrived, but close. (Sohotel)

When did you first start writing poetry?

Longer ago than I thought, actually. My sister recently mailed me some papers she found in her personal archives, and in them were poems I had written at college. I studied visual arts, and somehow had no memory of taking a poetry class in my first year. Once I read the poems, it all came flooding back to me.

Can you elaborate on that?

I was able to visualise the apartment I lived in at the time, in Richmond. And my bedroom, and then all the details of the poems themselves. It was a typical writing exercise: it was called “Twenty Snapshots”. It was evident from the writing that I hated the artifice of it. I think that experience shut the door between poetry and myself for a few years.

When did you return to it?

I hated college, and dropped out after my second year. I had burned all my bridges, had no friends and was supremely unhappy in Richmond. In hindsight, I was probably having a belated teenage rebellion. I moved to New York City in early 1995 – just caught a Greyhound and stayed in a cheap hotel on the Bowery until I found a job and a place to live. My first job was at the Strand. I walked in because I knew Patti Smith and Tom Verlaine had both worked there. They were my heroes then.

That experience, though horrible in many ways, exposed me to books and literature in ways college libraries hadn’t. And other people for whom books were a way of life, an obsession. I got caught up in that stuff. We drank a lot, and lived a pretty sordid lifestyle. I wrote about that time in [untitled chapbook].

Anyway, long story short I quit the Strand in a tizzy and ended up eventually at the Gotham Book Mart. Again, it was a Patti Smith thing. She had published her first book of poems with them. I probably knew that from some book I’d read about punk. Well, Gotham was a totally different atmosphere than the Strand, much more intimate and serious about books and people who loved them. And it was in midtown, on 47th, crushed in on every side by the diamond merchants. They had a great poetry alcove, and important poets each had a whole shelf for themselves: Stevens, Pound, Williams. Their photos lined the walls. It was a bookshop with a long history, and these poets were like extended family. At some point I came across Hart Crane and that was it.I was intoxicated by his poetry in a way I’ve never been by anyone else’s. I wanted to do what he had done.

Crane can be a difficult poet.

He can! I was drawn to that initially. He was like pure music. Even when he was drunk and didn’t make sense, he still sounded wonderful. He had a kind of logic even in madness. His letters were great too. For me he was like the Velvet Underground, one of those artists whose effect is transformative on a rather small group of people. Others kind of just look at them sideways, or in horror (laughs).

Did you begin writing at that point?

Yes, right away. I’ve always been the kind of person who wants to get his hands dirty. I don’t care if I’m out of my depth. I wanted to see if I could make this wonderful word-music, too. My first poems were imitations, as they had to be. But they weren’t so bad, in my opinion. Or maybe they were!

And did you publish them?

Yeah, I was lucky that at the Gotham there were tons of editors and writers coming in and out. New York is great like that. I took advantage, striking up conversations with people. People would tell me to send my work, and they would sometimes accept it. It’s very different from the submissions process today. At least for me. I got four poems in Pivot right away. I thought, This is easy.

What is different about submitting today?

I no longer have an advantageous perch in a well-trod New York bookshop, for one. Now I live abroad, in an out of the way place (as far as American literature goes). I’ve also never stuck with it year in year out, so I lost whatever foothold I had had. I keep starting over from scratch. And the internet has changed the game.

How so?

It seems there is so much more happening now. Social media has become the preeminent way to promote yourself and your work. Of course, the rewards are greater for those nimble enough to navigate the internet effectively. You can become a superstar practically overnight. I distrust such success, however. I don’t crave it. I want to get past the filters on the merits of the work alone. I’m my own worst enemy in that sense. I think that comes from my father. He would always do things the hard way.

Who are your favorite poets?

I don’t really have favorite poets. I like certain poems I read, certain voices, but I don’t go out and buy the collected works anymore. I read a lot which isn’t poetry, too, so I’m not obsessive like I once was.

What are you reading now?

Right now I’m reading Homo Deus, which deals with the future of Homo Sapiens,  a poetry chapbook and a novel. I get bored reading only one thing. I’m restless.

Let’s talk about your work. What is your process when writing a poem?

I don’t really have a process – or I don’t think I do anyway. Writing usually begins with a line or phrase that pops into my head when I’m doing something else. Sometimes I’m diligent enough to write it down in a notebook, and at times a poem follows. I’ll usually get something down in a rush, just trying to catch the words before they disappear, then I’ll type it up and the real work begins. But I like to see the poem on  the page, study the shape it makes, then attack it from there. Then I put it aside when something else starts happening, and so on. It’s a nonstop process.

When do you submit a poem to a magazine?

Sometimes after years of working on it, other times immediately. I’m still not sure what the best strategy is, so I just try everything. Rejection is pretty much guaranteed either way. I’ve learned not to worry about it, because it’s like a kiln in which your poems are fired. It’s good for them.

Do you give readings?

I think I did only once, for a magazine called Greetings. I was invited to read my three poems from that issue at a bar in New York. I haven’t done one since. I’ve never had an opportunity, really. I was invited by Rattle to read in Los Angeles recently, but I couldn’t make it. I’d have loved to go, but I live in Italy!

Tell us what took you away from the United States.

Oh, god, that could go on forever. Basically I was growing tired of the itinerant New York lifestyle. I was in a different apartment pretty much every year, breaking up and moving in and out, and I couldn’t handle another roommate situation. And living alone was too expensive on a bookseller’s salary. So I was generally fed up. I had also gotten screwed by my ex-girlfriend, and had bad credit as a result. I put my stuff in storage and took the first plane to Rome.

Did you plan to stay?

I had no idea. I just wanted to get away. I ended up taking a sabbatical year in Rome, writing a novel-in-verse, and meeting my wife. Everything changed that year. There was no going back at that point.

Tell me about the novel-in-verse.

It was begun on the eve of my departure, when I was still living in Brooklyn. Everything was falling apart, and I just began with this line, “Each night the poems traveled from his pen…” which was true enough about me at the time. It turned out to be a Byronic satire. The main character is a version of myself, but put through a number of filters. It goes on for eighty pages or so. It’s quite funny in its bleakness. It’s a bit like long-form Edward Gorey.

Is it true you met Gorey once?


How did that happen?

I was working at the Gotham and the owner, Andreas Brown – Andy – who had been the one behind the Amphigorey books in the 1970s  – he was a friend of Edward’s. At Gotham that was how they stayed alive at that point, by selling Gorey books and prints and paraphernalia. All signed. They had the market cornered on all things Gorey. One day Andy – who didn’t drive – told me I had to take him up to Provincetown (where Gorey’s house was) with a carload full of books. It was quite a trip.

What was he like?

Andy, or Gorey? (laughs)


He was like you’d imagine, I suppose. Let me say that I was not a fan at the time. I considered his brand of art whimsical. (I’ve since revised my opinions.) So I wasn’t going up there to meet the myth. He had that beard, and that crazy old mansion with too many books and cats – it smelled awful – but he was pretty normal. I remember the tv was always on. Sitcoms. I recall canned laughter coming from upstairs. The funny thing is that [untitled poem] – the novel-in-verse – ended up taking a great deal from that encounter with Gorey. I barely spoke to him, but I observed him pretty closely that weekend.

Has the novel been published?

No, no, I’ve still never had a book published. That’s like the Holy Grail for me, a book person, to have my own book. I’ve sent it out but it always comes back with a rejection note. Too bad, because I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. But I can see how it’s maybe not for everyone.

What do you mean, ‘not for everyone’?

I mean that it’s a quirky book, which goes to great lengths of absurdity just to see how far a joke can be pushed. When I was writing, I would just follow the stanzas – which are strictly rhymed and metered – wherever they went. All those years of working in bookstores, of non-stop reading, came out in that poem. It overflows. It’s not a quiet reading experience, or an orderly one. I’ve been told it’s very much like I am, by people who’ve known me. I take that as a compliment! From a marketing perspective – which is responsible for which books get picked up and which don’t – it’s probably a nightmare. Which is precisely what I like about it.

What do you think of contemporary poetry?

I don’t. I read it, and I write it, but I try not to think about it.

Why not?

What’s the point? I’m not a critic or a publisher. I just write what I write. Whenever I find I’m competing with fantasms, I have to step back. I don’t care about what other people write. If it’s good, I’m happy to read it, but I’m not into all the back-scratching happening on social media. All the networking. Which is probably why I’m under-published. Of course it may just be that my work is not that great. Who knows?

What are you working on now?

Everything at once. I’m still submitting those manuscripts, trying to place them. I write pretty much every day, no matter how much other work I have to do. I’ll find some time, even ten minutes, to revise a poem or jot down a line or two.

Thanks for talking to us.

Thank you.

[…] Titles have been deleted to protect the names of circulating manuscripts.

Holiday update

I’m a little behind on this blog – which is funny because it no longer has any readers and to be ‘behind’ implies that something is actually happening. Which it is, of course, if only in one’s mind. Then again, that is where everything ‘happens’, so I suppose a lot has been happening. (Forgive me, I’ve been reading Homo Deus and I’m beginning to think like a cyborg.)

As far as poetry goes, which is where this blog is at the moment, a few of my poems have appeared in the last few months, most notably in Verse-Virtual. In fact, an entire sequence of poems about my father was published in October. There are also photos and some prose, which makes it a cool mixed-media kind of thing. Below is my favorite of the poems, which is about how my dad used to wake up at night – sometimes more than once – and raid the fridge, guzzling milk and pretty much anything edible he could reach.

Breaking the news

Image result for kavanaugh hearing

Here is a poem I had up at Poets Reading the News in October, called “Breaking”. It was written in response to the breakneck pace of news during the Kavanaugh hearings, where every hour seemed to disclose some new revelation. I found that enjambment worked well here, kept up the pace of the poem as if it were an unstoppable series of half-baked ‘events’ from beginning to end. It aims to be disorienting. Also, as a language teacher, I was intrigued by the possibility of using as many collocations as I could for break.


I’m tired of breaking things the petulant news
always a bull breaking china breaking
into our homes like a thief
at breakneck speed we break
our backs to break our fall it’s time
to break for commercial take
a break from this record-breaking
breaking of the law and take
a moment to break down quietly
in a corner and softly mark
the breaking hours all around
us I find it’s hard to break the habit
though my will is broken broken
by the promise of broken ground
beneath our feet broken windows
in our cars broken glass in
our shoes that still need breaking
in          when will we break loose
from these broken promises
broken dreams break