Spinning in a dryer

April 6, 2013


American culture is a collage. Not only of ethnic backgrounds. But also genres, eras. It is endlessly interesting like clothes spinning in a dryer. Who knows why. This poem is from my new book, “My Hair Is On Fire.”




Alice was tied to the railroad tracks. Her legs spread like fence posts. Who thinks up these ideas. She should have been falling down a hole. I can still see the world collapsing around Buster Keaton.



A piano wire in his fingers around her neck. And pop goes the top. Of the champagne bottle. Everyone laughs and tips the help. I couldn’t help but wonder how you practiced something like that.



Moe was always so smug when he stuck his fingers into the eyes of Curly. Curly who ended up hanging in a closet. Like a recently pressed suit. A professional hit, Larry said. Moe wouldn’t do something like that.



The undead rising. Zombies. Started by Jesus. All the Christians wandering around so sure of the purpose in life. Looking for the Boston Tea Party in the Garden of Gethsamene.

smallI must make a phone call



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