Suicide has also become an ordinary topic of conversation among the young who more than ever before seem to be able to discuss it openly and dispassionately as an option in trying circumstances.  Suicide appears to be an accepted fact of life in Micronesia.-NY Times


And it felt like that time
he had tied his knot
and curled up his legs- just a touch
of slipping away.  He waited
till his lungs started to fill
before surfacing, spouting:
It wasn’t bad!
You should try it!

And we do, we try it every day-
lives exhaled with the smoke.
We sample death
like hors d’oeuvre, bit by bit
till one meal we eat a bit too much,
sit back, bloated,
and lay down in a coffin.

If only we could each see our clock
suspended, perhaps, above one’s head
or stuck into our chests.
A way to see the minutes left,
the ones we haven’t spent.
And then we’d notice
the ten seconds that tick away
when someone holds the door.



A poet hangs
from a thread, knotted
at one end to a tree, or desk,
and word by word
he unwinds himself
and steps into his depths
with a passionate scribble.

As he descends, he’s blinded
with the white enormity;
and the torch glows
against his walls:
monstrous mounted horns,
painted flames, a
trophy, illuminated.

And just after a sentence
he fumbles his pen and
opens his pack, trying desperately
to fit it all in.

Stolen Train

I had lost my train of thought.
It was cobalt, 2” by 3/4’, with silver axles, and
It was overtaken instantly by villains on horseback.  Or
perhaps it embraced its fluidity
and seeped right off its rails.

The police say I’m not alone-
that trains are stolen everyday, and
mine’s one of thousands.

They say that
there’s a scrapyard downtown
where trains are taken to be torn apart
and refashioned.  My perfect engine,
its cobalt paint scraped off in blue chips,
its silver axles melted down into tin,
and the metal underneath, polished
made useful by someone else.