F Poem


I'm clung to the chop of life. 


A slippery boat in the greasy waves

who are rough-capped with sea, 

so the whales don't fish

and the sharks don't bite


or mind you floating through them

to a sandy bottom.


No sand but oysters lined with cuts 

and spikes on your feet

 pants filled with water 

itching pain from the salt 

licks every knick on your body. 



The rash that won't go away.



I'm clung to the chop of life

 Have you heard?


Your glasses crushed so much

 and the water hurts so much

 to see you fall down it's not sand but oysters for a bed.


Mike's Pizza at 89th and Lexington (closed 2012)

Rockaway surf cam 2011 (boardwalk destroyed in superstorm Sandy, 2012)


E Poem


Trash myself to the last place on earth

Bigger than I'll ever think a pyramid.


He brush the groove I travel in.


Borderline summer weekend's rush to the sea,

bedding in tow and lobster craw loshed up in a crag,


washed up on the beach,


lost up in a winter batch whiskey makes me droop.