Conversation in the time of paranoia

“There’s no time,” she said,
“Any moment now will be
the too-late moment.”

“Can’t we tell
ahead of time?” I said.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she said

“Well,” I said, “that certainly
narrows down the possibilities,
with idiot ruled out.”

“Now you’re just being a jerk.”

“What, that’s not allowed either?”


And Martha says to Jesus,
‘So how long is this resurrection
good for?’
‘Hard to say,’ says Jesus.

Martha pours him
another glass of wine.

‘It’s just that he won’t stop
talking about it,
how he’s your favorite,
how you don’t raise

just anyone
from the dead.’

Jesus drains his glass,
reaches for the bottle.

‘I might be able to get him a job
in Cyprus.’


The lord is my shepherd, I shall not want

I shall not want for tribulation
For the flock is scattered
Their bleating goes unheard
Wolves nibble at the corners
With no fear of hindrance
I shall not want for tribulation
For the armies of God surround me
They have raised up the banners
Of loathing in every direction
And lo the sheep crawl
In slavish obeisance
I shall not want for tribulation
Even the dogs have abandoned us
As the shepherd sleeps off His cosmic binge
I shall walk through the valley
Of the shadow of death
Eyes closed
Fingers in my ears

The poetry in Poetry

Wicked, I know, but who could resist?

Oh, this must be a poem,
from the lick-backed wobble
of word-induced glimmer,

from the near-likely brood
of dimple-starred crows,
these broad gallops of

weedy wings.

Like the grand chausee
or the midge-grained wire alike.

Oh, this must be a poem,
sits like a wimple
across my greedy brow;

yet the still carcass
– a mantis dream –
occurs relentless into the
sun-darkened corner.

Oh, this must be a poem.