Wednesday, February 29, 2012


The Cast of Red Shuttleworth's High Plains Fandango
for the play's premiere at SUNY Fredonia

Front Row: Red Shuttleworth (playwright), Jonathan Dimaria (John Hooley), Nicholas Nieves (Father Ben), Jessica Drew-Cates (Aquinas), Tom Loughlin (director), Tony Taylor (Ken Adams)

Middle Row: Caitlin Molloy (Isabelle Roche), Kelsey Rispin (Waitress), Claire Elise Walton (DQ), Cassandra Giovine (Cinthia), Andrew Albigese (Moss)

Back Row: Sean Marciniak (Louis Roche), Clayton Howe (O'Garr)

Friday, February 17, 2012

To Assert One's Intimacy After Loss of Rhetorical Connectives

To Assert One's Intimacy
After Loss of Rhetorical Connectives

The fog city crumbled as I sat by a salt-blurred classroom window,
dazed by button-up skirts, button-down blouses, and orange juice eyes.

We sat at the airport's cafes in high school letterman jackets
and failed to pick up split-faced, bruised runaway girls.

At Wyatt Earp's grave in Colma's Jewish cemetery,
someone kept leaving yellowed Wells Fargo bank envelopes.

The junior college broomed me out six weeks into my absences.
Miss San Mateo County stopped seeing me for skin-nights,

The problem with you is that you don't even know
what a resume is.  I was reading Henry Miller that month.

The craic was good in the Irish bars on Geary Street,
but the left-over 2 a.m. girls had thick Cork ankles.

The rental houses at the beach, built against each other's
thin stucco, shook with the cold... and I felt gone from myself.

I will not wear black lace, I will not wear black lace,
the girl who moved in said.  No more fucking black lace.

The girl who moved in had changed her name to Ancient Love.
What Ancie's name was in her black lace days was never revealed.

At Wyatt Earp's grave, tourists left behind Roy Rogers pistols,
half-gnawed strips of beef jerky, drained cough medicine bottles.

From Earp's grave you could watch jets take off and land at the airport.
You could listen to sad trumpets from the nearby Chinese cemetery.

The college said I could return if I was open to being educated.
The dean's nose hairs dripped sweat and snot on his mustache.

All I want to learn, I admitted to the dean, is how to write love poems
that tabloids will publish under pictures of Bardot, Liz, and Monroe.

Sunday, February 5, 2012

You Mustn't Say That

You Mustn't Say That

Late morning slurs her silver words, starts to lose
her chrome-bright snow blanket to the flaring sun.
Every town, church-clean or halter top breast-juicy,
opens its mouth to suck marrow from the poor.

It is time for elections: half smile candidates,
I'm not concerned about the poor...
I like to fire people... and when I travel,
I strap the dog to the roof of the car to see America.

You would feel silly, at your slumber-glazed age,
stealing an apple-red desperado-drive Cadillac.
Turn up the volume as you pass the hospital.
Wave to the tequila-kisses cafe waitress.

Little darlin' hands you a pot of potato peels
to pitch into the pasture, The only Caddy you're
gonna stone ride is a black licorice hearse.
Money-gone America, we're pissin' next-time-water.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Winter Chronograph: 132

Winter Chronograph: 132

The narrow gravel roads to basalt country corrals
are snow-free.  Spring calving season approaches.
Old friends with macular degeneration see less of you.
At a fence line, you watch your own skull-white companion,
old age, lightly sleep in its ragged Hereford hide shroud.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Winter Chronograph: 130

Winter Chronograph: 130

Bushels of something in somebody's granary,
a peach-glow ribbon of sunset clouds
sandwiched between concrete-grey snow clouds:
sun-fall and dark birds migrate like screaming orphans.
The mud is inch-deep over frozen ground... not bad for dancing.