Category Archives: My Poetry

Sonnet 233: Mother and the Black Snake

… My mother pulled the black snake from the bush. Long snake gone from fleeing to being held twined around her arm and opened its mouth but mother only laughed and let it twist. Her friends who had come to party at her barbecue wanted […]

The Prologue

… These three poems are from the Prologue which is from of a longer work called The Final Postures of a Dying Whore. This is where it all begins. Enjoy. … … … I write the word: I am behind it You read the word: […]

Sonnet 226

… On a sad day of losses big and small someone left a flowerpot in the hall that wasn’t money or plenty of time but if I wanted it the thing was mine alive for sure because hint of a leaf sharply and green was […]

Poet Laundromat

… Poet Laundromat was filmed and directed by Tom Miller who saw me do a performance of my poem Fucking at Inroads, a venue for performance art in Soho in the early 80s. He’d just bought some video equipment and wanted to film me doing […]

the prologue

… … … … … … … … wind touches skin wind isn’t skin wind … words are birds … eye is sky … Dear Words Reverberating on my eardrum’s skin you come in like a finger on a guitar string. Sound sends me quivering. […]

Don Yorty reads from Fucking (Poet Laundromat)

… On Sunday, April 29, I was featured at the Zinc Bar with two other poets, Ed Friedman and Eleanor Nauen. I woke too early and was tired and talked too much between poems a little incoherently. But the crowd seemed to like Fucking, the […]

Dear Words

… Reverberating on my eardrum’s skin you come in like a finger on a guitar string. Sound sends me quivering. Some places hands can’t go. You touch the soul. But I’m not saying hands can’t talk or what is meant can’t be felt. Once I […]

At the Grave of Walt Whitman

… I was in Philadelphia and crossed the bridge to Camden. “I’m satisfied,” I said. “There’s grass growing here and I no longer care what anyone might think of me or what the future holds or when and if comes money.” I heard you speak, […]

For John Keats: This Living Hand

… I think that I’m a candle whose flame stays round the wick whether set in one place or carried never wavering an inch from where I’ve always been. I hold out my hand like you did. When I’m happy and look at it it’s […]

Sonnet 193: rocks and friends

… Like all of human kind the rocks along The narrow beach are all somewhat alike Yet each entirely different. We Pick them up, Honey and I, searching for The ones we want, the ones that touch us. They Are like us perhaps or is […]


… I’d rather watch fireflies than fireworks pressing against the dark. “They’re vicious beasts,” Dad says: “All they do is have sex and eat their prey by the light they make. There’s the first one now!” I look watching it glowing go out quickly back […]


… for Janis A bedroom. North Philadelphia. 1972 Ouvrez-moi cette porte où je frappe en pleurant. Open this door where I knock weeping. … I I WILL COME TO YOU WITH A CANDLE BURNING light a stick of incense comb and braid your hair with […]