The appendage police came the other day and threatened to confiscate my hands. They said I was writing subversive songs and anti-status-quo articles and screw-the-system poetry...
— 'The Appendage Police'
How much is there to dream in this soft tunnel of wind,
Oceans of air drafting hard through the leather helmet straps Singing me into a trance...
— 'Boston Moon'
We strip off our mundane days
Bare ourselves as we receive the ink
Naked, lovingly, knowingly genuflecting
beneath honesty's bright blade,
slaking our appetite for painful truth.
— 'Tattoo Archaeology'
The wiry mane through which your hand plays:
How many generations spun in fawn and ochre
to make such insistent hair
that sighs by moon and candle light,
brushing across your sculpted face.
— 'If You Kissed Me'
 Baiku:

despite best effort
summer turns fall turns winter
patience, wait for spring

something in back squeaks
when idling at a red light
nuts must be tightened

pneumatic front fork
pneumatic seat and rear shocks
to air is human

cast iron wheel no spoke
fuel-injected has no choke
technophobe in hell

riding thunder iron
storm traffic invisible
blessed underpass

river is low but
in spring the water rises
I wouldn't park there