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After Goya


Hola! Old friend . . .You, whose vision I’ve chased for years . . . As one from the plains who bears witness with his hands & blood in his throat . . . who speaks of the evil that men do & of the caller who knocks at every door . . .

Each day the donkey bears its burden of greed but here in Goya’s ‘night of the soul’

the corrupt haul each other on their backs & hurl their spears & pierce their own plump cocoons &

the dead will carry the dead / here where his monsters gorge on the torsos of kids & his priests walk a tightrope between their lies &

elegant women tease & flirt & are wrenched from their mother’s tit & here a raging stallion tears her flesh &

she’ll wear a mask to hide her scars & the hag will follow & sweep her up on a broom & sail over night &

here she’ll feed on dragon’s blood & dung & prefers a goat to a man & have him mount & . . . & here

the war tears out the country’s throat & mutilates & castrates & ties the bleeding parts to a tree . . . & here

a women who plucks the teeth of the dead & dogs that gnaw the guts in the pit & here the headless corpses rot ...

& Francisco de Goya will not be satisfied – here . . . & neither will we turn away . . . escape

the gapping & the gawking mouths . . . the grisly . . . hush.

Barcelona Diary
It's Mother's Day
By Dawn's Early Light at 120 Miles Per Hour
The Man With His Back To The Room
Intimacies, Prose. Poems and Stories
Homage to a Widow
It's Only TV
Improvisations - Chapbook
After Goya
Improvisations - From Contemporary Music
Mustering What's Left