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The folks at Idylist are plagiarizing my poems. So far they have taken “The End of a Roman God” and Excerpts from “THERE IS A PRESENCE” without indicating that these are my poems. They act as though the posts on their site are original without linking back to me and without using my name as the poet. They don’t allow comments on their site unless one signs in, and they do not leave an e-mail address so I can contact them. I wrote these poems. Plagiarism is theft. The people who post at Idylist are thieves. They don’t want me to contact them. And they may not even realize they are thieves.

If this was an honest mistake, I’ll expect them to contact me pretty quickly with an apology .

EDIT: They’ve been un-linked now. Thanks to Jilly, who’s a poet and “a good guy.” Jilly’s having some health issues, please keep her in your prayers.


This isn’t about prayer as such
but concerns the yellow flowers and the barking dog,

the coffee shop downtown, where memory floods
the mind in uneven scenes, and no one prays or even

pauses as though he might pray, drinking the depth
of the city’s drivel. This is a poem about living:

About visions in a world of dreams, about rough places
in the world’s basement, where we see, hear,

and smell the vomit, before drifting off to chase truth.
This is about the man who sits in the gutter, wearing mis-

mated socks—he’s a lot like us—and about
other common places the reverie might lead.


Is there no love on this whirling earth,
only the urge to brainwash, with even

our government always watching, feigning
protection, so that every other Friday a suspect can

be penciled in to the some category between freedom
fighter and poet? Why, even our love-lives glow bright

in the havoc. The earth spins and spins,
through the floods and volcanoes, with rumors

and wars outside every window. The moderns
search their search engines for the language

of perfection. Our differences multiply daily.
We gather—in every impoverished temple—

where we forget the witch hunts of Salem.
The sins of many mothers drowned in the river,

in the low light of the morning’s hidden sun.
The sins of the fathers still bloody our hands.

This isn’t about prayer as such but concerns how
we might gather humanity together,

where God once hurled silvered confetti,
sweet children made snow angels. My reverie—

thankfully—leads me here. But will we kill our own
kind, without praying or even pausing, as though

trouble did not abound either then or now? This is
about human need.

first published in The Centrifugal Eye

Yep. Kyle Busch!


April 2008