“AMBUSH” 1/1/11 by Marcus Elman

It’s New Years Eve.

I’m bound.

I’m wound.

Shivering in the gleam,

in the newness coming

with the stroke of midnight.

When the ball drops this year

I’ll be asleep, then

awakened by the roar of the street,

by the disco beat at the corner

restaurant, by the kids honking

horns between bong hits.

I’ll stay in bed,

turn my cell phone to silence,

and walk my dream circuit.

Do some interval training over

the decades that disappear

now, like my hair, once called

a triple afro; now clipped close

like old sheep counting sheep;

like madmen at their mutton

repast calling the horses:

Ready to ambush the New Year.

Marcus Elman

L. K. Thayer’s Foto Fetish

© 2011

“WHATS LEFT?” by Marcus Elman


Photo by Marcus Elman with Maat in Paris

We are what’s left.

We are the remains.

We are the tongue of the dead and the silent.

We are what they were thinking.

They are crawling inside of us,

inside our gall, willing us to remember everything.

They are on parade in our unconscious

deciding when and where.

We are what’s left.

We are the dim hope of the gone.

Us: our hands and voices.

Hear them screaming for just one more day to love

and be loved.

We are what’s left,

we are the remains of love.

Marcus Elman

© 2010


“MAN YEARS” by Marcus Elman


Every man knows, he’s only as good as the fish throbbing in his net.
Only as good as God gives his hands clay.
Only good when good is spread-out, like a picnic on a spring day.
Every man is old in his good — failed or found.
As old as gold in lost hills,
ancient as unknown veins in scrabble mountains.
Every man wakes up to his dog and asks,
how many man years left boy?
And holds his heart, and cries.

Marcus Elman

Photo by Ralph Starkweather

© 2010