When I die, my friend Larry
said one morning in the third
inning of a double header
of stoop ball, I want
to be burned, not
that I intend it to happen
any time soon, but when it does.
They burned my grandfather
I think it was Dachau, but
unlike him, I want to kick
some ass before it happens.
Just let them call me Jew boy
I’d like to hear the sound
of their balls imploding
up into their bladder.
They burned my grandmother too,
years later, until all that was left
was the cancer eating her stomach,
but I want to be burned
in an oven set up properly
for the job, my ashes cast
into the wind or maybe
in the infield of Buffalo’s
War Memorial Stadium
if Luke Easter is still playing
first base for the Bisons.
It was only two days later
that Larry tripped on the curb
outside the variety store
on the way home from school
and later that day they took
his kidney and laid it, all bloody
within, on the steel tray.
When he came home his mother
said he had to be careful
when you have only one kidney
you can’t fool around
and you certainly want to avoid
the strain that comes
from kicking any ass.

First Appeared in Afterthoughts (Canada), Vol. 2, No. 4, Autumn, 1995.


will not marvel at the dawn
will not stare at the ebb and flow of the sea
will not see ghosts in the clouds over Dachau

 will sit on the page staring back
will remember the torn wallpaper
will cry out, always unanswered

 will not trace your spine, lingering on each vertebra
will not make childish sexual come ons
will not wipe a tear from your cheek

 will curl next to me in a hotel bed
will whisper to me when sleep flees my grasp
will  pervade my dreams.