My Apologies

February 9, 2016

You see, i spilled water all over the computer. I wanted to save the work some place off my computer. This was the most convenient. This text may or may not at a later date.

John-Thanks for the kind thoughts. I’m okay.  More on what I’ve up to soon.


February 8, 2016


January 2, 2016

The flowers groan with the same heave
and pitch the wind has as it attacks
the wall we built. The wind throws its leaves
at delicate white petals as they fold together—
then they let out a private cry—
a warning that obeys what the world has
already understood: that our white petals
will always be invisible, virginal;
that we will always seem to kneel together
as night succeeds the day; that wind
overblows and bellows; that sea escapes
the beach, swept too clean…
All will listen whilst the water freezes the seasons
on this summer ledge, with winter’s harsh reasons.
All will listen: Whoosh.

At Daylight’s Reckoning

December 10, 2015

They had failed at magic:
the long walks home;
the nights being so cold,
but not cold enough not
to remember the shape
of a shade tree in July;
nor long enough not
to remember what
a shade tree is for—
for they had  bet on this,
a night like this,
a daylight’s  reckoning,
the icicles dancing in
the snow in the twilight,
and it was too cold not
to be thinking
of summer tonight
as they hurried across
the newly frozen pond
listening for the sounds
of ice clucking and moaning
and cracking, as it shifted
on top of the warmth of` the water
trapped between the ice above
and the icy land below.

How I Invented the Past

December 5, 2015

The earth was leaf dead to its vitality.
The house was empty and abandoned.
The bathroom smelled of laics laced
with what an odd sentiment—
a murder of crows—imagine the sky filled
with their cries and shadows,
as if winemakers had walked
the valley crushing grapes,
and juice had rolled off and ran the river red.
It was delicious. I ate ham hocks.
They were good too. I was there.
I saw no one else. I ate alone.

We could almost see the sap rise in the mist
We could almost smell its bouquet, hear it cackle,
the like of which would never be heard from again.
We trundle to the end of days, a cross our burden,
the witch, our companion.   We sit alone at night
in all night cafes, scared to leave our selves behind.

But wait, who is this ‘we’? If I am here
alone. Then you are not here, are you?
How could I know what you saw in the mist?
Could smell it, etc.? Truth is, I can’t.
Can’t see you sitting on the bed.
Can’t see you leaning out the cell window.
Can’t see your empty smile at my dismay.

Two lonely doctors standing in the light
at the end of the darkened corridor—
that’s how I invented the past.



Sing Song

November 21, 2015

Did we sing before we spoke, you and I?
Did we listen to the song that lights the rain:
a love song the water brings
on tides too swift to swim through? Songs
as sung by our ancestors, distant voices
too far away to distinguish, too close
to understand , too bright to darken—
too hot, too  windy, too fragrant…
the candle calling light back
into the darkness, a song,
a scandal, an anguish. Speech lip-red.

I too wish to go on singing—
a song sung but not remembered by a man sworn
to silence too long ago to redeem
the idea of approaching winter:
like mist amid the rows of  a pale corn,
the sky dark and cloudy, the snow about to fall.

Could we sing? Asking what?
Singing what? Seeing what? We
can do all this and more.

It is like a pond populated with wishes
where words form like minnow’s feet amid
the circle-like ripples the rain makes
as it drops into the water.
It is as if we were feeding the pond bread,
as if the minnows…
as if they’d come to the  surface
to sing songs in the air.


November 3, 2015

O, Orpheus, have you deceived us once
Again? We thought you’d said ‘descend’. But now
You use ‘arise’ as if one were a dunce
To make that pit into a sacred cow—
Because into that pit the fallen angels ‘fell’.
Of course, in that pit were merely animals
Of faith and fat that came to ‘dwell’.
Of course, you changed us into their cannibals—
And cannibals must remain frozen in their
Terrible form until some song release them;
Until some song, intrepid and so spare
In action that it may slip past the guardian
And make resurrection. O, Orpheus,
It seems a half of you has deceived both of us.

An October Snow

October 21, 2015

The earth begging to cool,
to return to a winter’s winter,
to snow-muted trees,
their sap withdrawn,
the austerities of a place so pure
we could call it holy.

A juniper bush, frozen, takes
so long to mature, one can see
the berries ripen along with
the growth of the branches and
the roots as they pushed
into an open clearing,
awaiting sunlight.

But O, the shadows were
so flat on the wet snow.
They looked like a kind of red rust
as they struggled to get free—
to get caught up in a fresh breeze
as it blew across the continent
and sang of contentment,

and sang of an angel that bends
and touches earth for the first time,
even though the earth
and all its fragrances
are too strong for it, too muscular—
the smell of an old coat
gone sour with sweat,
the crux of summer.


September 18, 2015

To their amazement the hyena
could sit and listen to Chopin or Bach—
the Nocturnes, the Preludes,
whatever, even Debussy’s Le Mer—
and see them as ancient maps
full of monsters and mermaids.

Listen to them roar—
Listen to them sing—
the ones who die are the lonely ones,
the ones who carry all your sentences—

not as words of amazement—
but as poems of silent daydreams and silent lies—
poems folded like an old map in an old attic.
Go ahead and listen.
Then eat the lion.


September 17, 2015



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