Lost for words


The poet of fractious things


George  Faludy

He, now dead, who

Was once more living

Than most

Tasted ideology

And found it too bitter

Sunk supine instead

Into his flesh

Ate life and spat words

Fucked women

And just one man

For the sake of asymmetry


His deep well never

Ran dry

His boredom with boorishness

Never divorced him

In gulag or salon

(He knew both intimately)

The driest thing was his wit

The sharpest his tongue

And in any language

His substance was the same

In the face of dogma

“What have we done to ourselves?”

“To what end?”




Words are my own.






Fish are Jumpin’




Chasing rainbows

Took dog down by the lake
Where the trout jump
When you’re not looking
Tried to catch ’em mid-flight
But when I looked left
They jumped right

Tricky little fishes
Leaving dog unimpressed
Too busy with the dragonflies
To get his paws wet.


Words and image are my own.



Ain’t necessarily so



A fine fellow she was



Did you hear about Pulaski?


May have been a she

The father becomes a


That dashing, tragic warrior

For whom we named a Highway

In the sky

Shows us that understanding can

Be subverted

And that history

Is not a dead language

General Pulaski

Mother of the American cavalry.




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