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In 2010, this mural was designed, incorporating a stanza from my poem Freaks. It now graces the Waterfront, Asbury Park, NJ, US.

If poems are lucky, they receive such treatment. Glowing within beautifully designed chapbooks or upon broadsides. Gracing the label on a bottle of high-priced wine. Inscribed onto a silver plaque by the river.

Once, a long time ago, I was given a paper snowflake with lines from one of my poems written on it.

These & not cruder payments or drabber accolades, is what poems live for.

p.s. The whole poem:



On the subway over the Hudson, an armless man puffs

into the harmonica slotted into its yoke

around his neck and, pitying his lack of prosthetics,


passengers drop pennies in his Starbucks cup, stare

out the graffitied glass at the black

wake behind him. There is no longer any fanfare


for his strangeness, his Darwinian

predicament. Once Barnum and his freaks

took to the rails, a herd of wonders clacking from Mississauga


to Minneapolis, fats, dwarfs, giants, tribes, Jojo

the Dogface Boy, Admiral Dot the midget, Jane

Devere whose 14 inch beard flowed darkly over her corset, three


rings of lyphodermal limbs, double vaginas & ectrodactylic

hands, posing in Eisenmann’s faux parlors on the Bowery

wearing real furs, taking tea with Queen Victoria whose boudoir


flaunted its own pickled punk amid snuff and fans.

We have laser machines, wax and scalpels so that

smooth, proportioned, we can attain to the level of technicians,


programmers, torn from the noble pantheon of curiosities,

birthed into the invisible world of acceptance.

O why didn’t they let me live in another century, stay


bird woman, alligator girl, with my extra set of molars, that

one incisor that stuck out from my palate, waiting

for its untenable shell.  How I would have boxed with Zip


the Pinhead, quaffed one back with Lobster Man, lolled about

with Corpulent Blanche, then every night the gilded

applause as I parade in my cage, sweet princess of feathers,


while now, extracted, braced, perfected, I am lonely.


Here I pose in front of lines from one of my hand-written ghazals, enlarged until they transform into a backdrop, a frame of language. By Karen Moe. O, and the tattoos on my flesh, they too are lines from poems, Eugenio Montale, Robinson Jeffers, Catullus.