3 Poems from The Somnambulist

Like any good hustler he knew
how to lean and lean in like a man
once I caught him falling back



had he relapsed he had I grasped
the last sparks of his centerfold smile
something abstract in me cracks



shapeless mass a buffalo lands
like something heavy very fast off-
black in the darkness a figure: Dad









From a notebook, undated:




Accident, 1963: art’s not so abstract after all.




If I look at art, it’s because it helps me imagine you
free. Unchained, torn. A little like a Rauschenberg.



Who knew inside any accident is a poem: You can watch
in slow-motion the stone cracking, the syllables breaking.









Forgive me, Father for I have sinned
It’s been six, no, nine, no nevermind
I don’t remember my last confession
I have a recurring dream



where Willie’s smell
like battered cocoa leaves

courses through

my resurrected adult body



The priest replies,
“But child, what kind of melancholic
Catholicism is this?”
I forgive the priest, but I don’t forgive Willie
not for his trespasses, his coming-and-going



as he pleases from places
nobody gets to come back





Front page image by Jessica Ann.

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