My image of you:

A marble in orbit

around the ballroom floor

like a smiling astronaut

trying not to panic in a locked up space.

Gloom and doom, together in the endless land,



you are in a locked up space and your legs,

they run in place.

My image of you:

A silver horse, a cosmic gallop

around the sun in a metallic chariot

trying not to panic

in the feverish space.

Gloom and doom, together in bedazzled illusion.


you are in a feverish place

and your reins, they imprison your face. haber-1

White Washed: New short story teaser

In the six years I spent tracking David Addley, it never occurred to me that he didn’t exist.

Perhaps my friends were too nice and polite every time I mentioned his name. “Has anyone got news about David?” I’d ask over coffee at work.

Martin and Tia would look at each other worriedly. One would finally answer, “No, no sign of David. Sorry.” And then she’d change the subject. “How’s the new deck coming for your pool, Ethan?”

After three years, I stopped talking about my search and pretended I gave up on David – like a kid ending his superhero phase and moving on to something else, except I couldn’t focus on anything else.

“Mr. Addley, the car mechanic? Oh sure, I sure him last month at Better Value. He rang up $80 worth of beer and whisky. Must’ve been going to some party!” Darlene informed me over a tuna melt panini. She remembered my obsession with David. I decided to bring him up again. She had always been the best listener. Maybe the time lapse, oh maybe two years between our last conversation about him, resurfaced memory of David.

Darlene took a gooey bite and leaned across the table so I could hear her better over the street traffic. “Ethan. Are you really still trying to find this guy? He’s ubiquitous. Yes, I have seen him. You have not. You have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That is all. How about I call you next time I see him? Even if it’s just a shadow of his shoulder.”

Mr. Addley was last seen at the auto shop six years ago. He closed up for the weekend and never returned for Monday morning. The thing that bothered me most wasn’t that he disappeared, but how no one cared. No police investigations, no questioning. He had no family or friends to question. Zip, zero. A week later, a new mechanic filled his place. No one wondered if David would come back. They completely denied his existence. “Forgettable character, I suppose,” Ethan’s sister reasoned once over the phone.

But Darlene has been by buddy since high school. She’s also the only one to have spotted Mr. Addley on occasion throughout the six years. “Let’s see. David is clearly sustaining himself. Hopefully not all on alcohol alone!” She chuckled. “He likes to exercise. A year ago he jogged along the Charles River in bright yellow runners and short shorts. It was goddamned freezing too. And, I don’t know. That’s about all I got. You’ve checked all homeless shelters and phonebooks for his name right?” She paused. “Silly question.”

Darlene gave me hope that he was still out there. The police disregarded my inquiries and laughed when I insisted about a man I never met.

But how can a man go missing and no one blinks an eye?

“You sure it’s Mr. Addley you’ve been seeing?”

“Positive. What other person walks around with a gun sticking out of his boot?” whitewashupdate2

In the name of revolution

Barn frames. Splintered and glorious.

Colonial American flags, rusty red, not royal in hue

protrude from the frames.

Behind the red wood,

cows laze in hobbit land and fields

where rocks-white-sparkle

in verdant seas.

Father and young boys

dip their fishing rods

in the lake.

A mallard rests near by on the burning pavement


leaking oily red.


Down the road and a bend in the bridge:

a sign.

Eggs for sale –

oval yard sign stands by the wood mailbox,

a mini-fridge holds eggs on the porch.

The mallard hatches to heaven.2977304854_7989da2b76

Reconstruction Site

I want to tell you

I live on a thin raft

constructed far from shore

in a Western reverie

where Pharaoh voices crescendo and narrow beats escape

a singing river – full of friends waiting

to tell me, with dry sand cemented to their fingers –

how the thin raft has escaped.

And my chest is hard.

I want to tell you:

the strange morning is opening;

time for reorientation.

I still need you.

A Steep of Consciousness

Succulent syllables.

Jam. Jamb. Iamb.

sssssalt aand PEP!er

Pep!er and sssssalt.


made of rasp, rasp

berry and lavishing




Who is he? I prefer not, Bartleby.

Sit next to jars and basil pots (not walls)

Leafy leaves leaving the edge

the lip

of sticky marmalade jars.

Herbs and spices, boxed up


spoons from forks from knives from sugar sleeves, from me with love.

The black napkins don’t even stand a chance. Wipe my sticky

rasp rasp berry lips. lined with lavAshing LAVender.


“Do you have smoky butter?”

Not in here.




Do Not Wake the Glittery Bones

The road is steep ,

lined with tiny bones.

All glittery and cold.


If you look in your rearview mirror before the ascent,

the last ice shavings are welded

to the tallest pine tree.

Go slow, up the road.

The tiny bones are sleeping, but alive.

Whisper a lullaby with rubber tires.

Do not wake the glittery bones.

The road guides survivors who wait.

The road takes the blame.