Stevieslaw: DNA—new poem

My poem DNA was published today on the Linden Avenue Literary Journal.  Here is the poem—followed by the link.




in the dim

and narrow light

of the old lamp

that graces

my basement desk,

I realize

once again

how I’ve come

to resemble you.


In a room made

mysterious by shadow,

I remember how

you would often

prepare dinner

in the uncertain light

of late afternoon,

delaying as long as you

might the incandescence

that left you oddly anxious.


I turn off the lamp

and make my way

across the dusky room,

chuckling at the skill

you passed to me,

of finding my way

in the dark.

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Stevieslaw: Sex Appeal

Pure Slush is producing a seven volume anthology on the deadly sins.  My poem “Sex Appeal” is in Volume 6, Envy, which was just released today.  Here is the Poem:

Sex Appeal


From his early teens

my fast friend Tom

was fluent in woman.

His at-ease-ness

with the fair sex

was so at odds

with my slight


I suspected

a pact with Lucifer


I hung around,

hoped that one or more

budding damsel

might tire of Tom

and find my

tight lipped stammer

and pimpled brows


but never

a nibble.



I wished Tom rickets.

I wished him a misstep

on the subway platform

as the 7th Avenue Express

roared through.

I wished that Zeus

would bolt his too easy

heart and leave

him to smolder

in the schoolyard.



Posted in gang gang dance, Humor, poetry | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Stevieslaw: My poem on New Verse News

Big day today. Here is my poem on New Verse News:

Slum Lord

You send the beef
in bowling shirts
and shitkicker boots
every Sunday morning
to collect from the perennial poor
in the claptraps
you own on Stone Avenue.

Rumor has it
the hobbled wretch
who begs at the five and dime
offered lip
instead of money
and they showed him out
through a third floor window.

Dad’s mom lived
on the fourth floor of #720.
A refugee from the shtetl
she was well prepared
to live without heat
or running water,
to navigate the teeter-totter stairs
in the half light of a 40 watt bulb,
to coexist with roaches and rats,
the acrid smell of cabbage,
untended garbage,
and the methodical cruelty
that humans without hope
inflict on one another.

I know you.
You have the health
and building people
in your ample hip pocket
and while you might
hire some people to spit
shine your shoes
and some to break legs,
you spend every Sunday night
counting and recounting
the stack of smalls,
the nickels and dimes—
because for you,
a sumptuous view
of the New York skyline
can never compare
to the heft of a roll
of nickels.

And the link:

Posted in gang gang dance, poetry | Tagged , | 2 Comments

Stevieslaw: Karen’s Joseph Cornell poem

My wife, Karen, has her first pubished poem on The Ekphrastic Review today.  It’s in response to a Joseph Cornell box. The link is above. The poem is here:

Utopia Parkway

Joseph Cornell rode the bus from
3708 Utopia Parkway to Flushing, NY
to pick up the train into Manhattan.
I rode that bus many times
to go to school, to the movies,
to shop, to escape.
Would I have noticed him
amongst the other passengers?
Would he have worn an overcoat, a tie?
Would he have shopping bags
to hold the things he found in the city?
Would his theatre tickets be stuffed in his pockets,
or carefully tucked in a book?
Would he have stared at the floor,
or closed his eyes and dreamed?
Would I have approached him,
if I had known who he was
or picked up something he had dropped
and followed him to return it?
Or, would I have stuffed it in my handbag,
taken it home, and put it
in a box?


Posted in gang gang dance, poetry | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Stevieslaw: Poem—Cancer

My poem, Cancer, is up on The Drabble today. Here is the poem and the link.


“I’m still here”
you whisper,
in a voice as old as anguish,
barely discernible over
the din of the everyday—
scented like Sunday
with the musk
of onion-skinned prayer books
and the lingering
sadness of dusk.



Posted in gang gang dance, poetry | Tagged | 3 Comments

Stevieslaw: New Poem: Good Night

The link to the issue is above.  Here is the poem.

Good Night

Grandma, fourteen and just arrived from England,
survived the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire,
her left side—sightless and deaf—
scarred from arm to ear.
For 83 years, she was afraid of sleep—
of dreams that swallowed her night.

Grandma liked to say she could see better
than most with perfect vision,
hear enough
to smell horseshit,
knit and sew, cook and bake as well
as those who slept at night.
She taught us all to cook
with gestures and incantations.
Her latkes were legend—
peppery and crisp as chips.

Grandpa often said he worshipped
the ground she walked on
and that she wasn’t so bad either
He wore the grin of a happy man
with a laugh as contagious as good health.

Widowed at 90, we took her in.
My grandson, Paul,
shy and slight—
shadowed her every move.
One night, at bedtime,
they sat together in the old recliner,
swapped whispery stories,
in the hushed and darkening room,
and slept soundly ’til dawn.

Posted in gang gang dance, poetry | Tagged | 2 Comments

another july.

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