30 April 2013, Seven New Poems and Seven Old Ones


You bought in
to the principle (al)
that profit is king, and this
was noble
thinking, considering

what the market has
done for you (and me?) but long
ago, after your
brother and I met square-on
in a chicken match

over on
the west side of the
chosen lake, Canandaigua,
Jack put his
foot down on any

with Stuber, except maybe
as client, from a
distance, “managed” once a year
regardless of trite

order to
sell. So we met once again
floating your
fortieth birthday,
but I let you have

your day, skipped
Thirstys, it being your joint
not ever
mine. I’ve done well for
labor, planet earth.


Snow flies through closing
door, bark peels
away from fire log
placed on embers entices
old friend to new play.

Cross country
ski, or boat purchase,
defense on Navy’s
hockey club,
barefoot skiing on

the lake where your Dad
bought the house
my Dad built with his
bare hands. Luck, eh? And down
to Rake’s to fill up,

campout on Squaw, the
small island inn such
shallow green
on a lake of deep blue.

Smokestacks for
the environment, roller
blades for hot
weather exercise.
Children mostly grown,

and the joy
of being a unit for
as long as
possible in the
human realm. Peaches.


Soccer star,
hoop magician, stunned
when A/C gave you all you
could handle
since I was on the

victorious team.
Ah, but I the bench
warmer, was
not you, star center.
What’s new in the lab or out

in the field?
Far astray from our
Barnard Track days, away from
wedgies to
Goldberg, chasing Kim,

Screwing up party
plans by calling on
the day of
the gathering, I
still remember between- the-

leg passes,
wicked slap shots, your first time
stories, as
they were first in a
neighborhood full of

playboys, but none worked harder
to attain
sports fame. Long lost, it
could take time to know…


Commissioner, how
did that chance
to save your family land
work out? Lewis and
Clark sure did

not steal land
as they went, and our
friend Jefferson ended up
millions in debt back when a
dollar was a good

week’s pay. So what of
these bailed out
bankers while austerity
rules the land? Got a
new plan that

can save a
town, village, household?
That’s it! Stay local, make a
place that works outside the damned
globalized, profit,

fascist hold
on the planet. True, people
would have to form new
cooperative farms,

urban style
and barter, to stay
clear of tax-
as-war-support, or
we’re all culpable.


You, thespian, moved
not just into my building,
but down the hall. Showed
up at a party in a
gold Lemay mini that gave

Lee a run for his
money, yet
his hip-high
out-cake did ice the fact

Ben preferred to break
down his own door than
to risk a couch sleep
among such company. Then
the novel-length text message

we had about the
you caused to
yourself when first struck
then annoyed, then let loose by

dreamy one,
only to make eyes at an
Irish soft-
eyed wonder, only
to lose out again,

just in time
for Ben to re-enter, so
to speak, whisk
you from Brooklyn to
Boston. Stay young Q.


The Red Lion Inn,
no matter
who owned it, or ran
Country Curtains,
or who tended bar

in the basement tin-
ceilinged, red velvet, Stormin’
Norman and
Susie-styled stage size,
could never equal

the pure New England
touch of its
ultimate man-of-
the-house, Church
Davis. His navy

blue blazer always
welcoming guests from the porch
to the round
tables-for-ten served
family style. Old

briefly lost then regained your
finesse in
dealing with things
like the stolen glass

in some alcoholic’s small
Stockbridge was/is a
Rockwell/Davis thing.

Lorant Forizs

Your wife wrote

a response to a Christmas

card to let me know you had

died.  You, the swimmer, the one

who escaped

Andropov, leaving


eating out of  a

can, if at all, and

making it to the


Already wise, before “The

Loops and Interfaces of

Man” appeared: you managed to

convince an

inveterate, cheap

liar that

my main goal in life

was to seek the truth.

Not once did  you blurt


stuff, like it was myself I’d

have to fool

to become a truth

sayer.  I’m less off,

less rattled,

less depressed, more able to

love, thanks to

you.  And you liked my

paintings, no kidding.


Fall orange winters
down to riverbed not yet iced
but dry from drought.


Labor Day 2012

Today’s troops include cross back suspendered shorts
strutting hard over very high heels with a tight fitting black
cotton shirt barging through the usual suspects: schoolgirl
uniforms, parental friends carrying children, well-suited cell
phone salespeople handing out glossy paper quickly discarded
to the messy square bricks of Shinae, the sexy, color-coordinated
monster friend strolling zone over here in Gwangju. Bobby coifs,
sculpted boys with well-done girls, now a solo lady a complete
rarity in this duet-driven land. Hard to believe the gay scene
is microscopic with so many mono-sexual walk-mates. Anyone
even two inches off normal is way off here, but the ultimate
eye-opener now appears: shorts, a deep blue shirt and fluorescent
green fake suspenders that are sewn on at the top and clip on to the
bottom of shirt or shorts depending on cup size. Eighty-eight cent
coffee deal awaits on Labor Day (May 1 here) celebrated the same
day Russia does. Russian picked the day to a series of successful
1889 strikes in the USA. By switching it to September in the US
the real history is lost, but not on Helena, the star professor
who wants to write her way out of Russia now, in order to join
this street club, as a social member, for four months come June.

Fog portends hot day
at harvest in Korea.
Some lose, some
win; the best share crops.
The worst take without working.

There is no
limit on mother’s
endurance for her
children, likewise men’s
penchant for war. Churches tote

the conservative
line, thus expanding greedy
infusing evil their flocks

can live by.
Just as many still
retain peace, love and
understanding, so
brotherhood itself fights as

hard as the
abused mothers, choir boys and
aware children who
work, beg, plead, kill

to survive
without sanctuary in
villages torn by
drought and starvation.

Gang Bang

Molly, from upper-middle class London
“joined” a gang due to family arguments and
too much academic pressure at home. She was
forced, emotionally, to seek love, and used sex
with violent gangsters to replace a hug and
soothing parental interface. Instead of “School
Without Walls” (see Rochester, NY) she’s passed
her rite, and this has gone on for decades, but as
soon as she starts her own sexual adventures
she’s demonized as “sket,” Jamaican slang
for slut. This only differs from fraternizing
and sorority-izing in comfort level, as both groups
excel at manipulation, winner-take-all, libertarian
capitalism, unfettered by law, rules or regulations
while free to beg trillions when their Usury schemes
fail then cripple the blue collar backbone over here
in the land of polarization, as in Ralph Nader, Noam
Chomsky and Michael Moore against O Reilly,
Gingrich and Palin. On paper this is a smear,
but in reality we’re as fucked as Molly ever was.

Green M & Ms

Rain rolls past silver “Folly,” clouding chances
for ballgame fun, distributing spring water to
farmers as four suits two bondage-heeled, well-
perfumed, mini-skirted forty-somethings, still
beautiful, now trading digits, and this speaks
louder than the announcer who ushers in another
round of K-Pop that will forever mark this
off-trampled peninsula as being silly capitalists.
As in all things, Korea has copied a product (70s
disco) and repackaged it with brilliant marketing:
tall, thin singers prancing around in, uh, mini-
skirts. This behavior so enamors practitioners
of good taste: Chinese men, and the French, that
K-Pop is now making inroads in Korean-American
neighborhoods as well. “Baby one more time,” and
similar lyrics may not change the world but could
nudge shy boys into action in countries that still have
them. Note to audience: just ask, you never know
what he or she will say. Two ladies answer phones
at the same time, one walks out providing noise relief.

Gwangju Christmas 2012

Sa Sun and
Beop Jeong trusted deeds
over words even if their
words were so well known.
Christmas rolls

into town and for
true believers and
novices alike, simple
saves lonely souls who

might have slipped away.
So raise a glass to Jesus,
the uniter of

Even if the deeds
of many devote
Christians lay people in their
graves via Lee Myung
Bak’s water cannons,
Bush’s Abu Graib.

A toast then
to righteous Christians, in hope
that they can
help their priests see the
error of their ways.

Nothing in
the bible sanctions rape
of choir boys,
or Falwell’s use of
coffers to back the

Hold hands and shed a tear for
three thousand
cultures lost when greed
filled “Christians” went

across to
steal the land from better men
and women
who loved the land. Rise
Christians, take a stand!

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