King of the Queen City

Vacant furloughed foundries

Corpses of great industry

Among Victorian tree-

Houses and towers concrete

Endless suburban expanse

And mirror dwellings line-dance

From one another they stand

Only ten feet in distance

Together they shut windows

As November carries snow

Home is where the heart will grow

Weary-strong of winter’s throes

Rusted, hardened, drinking folk

Have long outlasted the cold

A man come from Buffalo,

Or, the truest soul you know

With My Feet on the Scum-An Homage to Walt Whitman

I wonder from the floor of the gleaming golden surface

and the broken blue sky,

The unbounded oxygen and burning flotsam,

And I Imagine too my floating form, my flat-paddle soles

o’er the break of the waves,

The sea foam that collects on my toes, the mist that

masks my scent from the water,

The weeds that kiss my feet, and there ones that wrap

my ankle,

The gulls that dip their legs, the gulls that plunge 

and pull up their meal.

Has anyone ever seen the bottom?

From the middle of the sun?

From the deck of the ship transcending the tides?

From the dead of the shore?

From the turret of the palace above the break wall?

The gleaming golden sun that is hard to see

doesn’t need me—and I don’t need it.

I will stand with my feet on the scum, 

In solitude with the fish and the blue and the bottom 

of things

With my cheek turned up waiting to be caught


Sky shaded sertraline

and the clouds covering

our streaks

across the rock

We cant look down

at the eyes on the shoreline,

they can see us

from the docks

through the pill blue


Tiny on the cliff,

like the birds

they fish from the sky.

It felt

like I was standing

on the other side of the world.