Saturday, September 2, 2017

No Title

Octavio Paz was following me.
A sum dum sore shadow
Night brazen against street lamp
Projecting the projector
In negative, an errie other worldly self
I turn in a turn onto ties to see
The beautiful eyes that never
Made it into his poetry 
The beautiful irises that
Held and beheld stone and smoke
I don't mind he, following me
Like that in books, like that
In other shadows creeping around
Just Stopping in time to plop down, flop 
Down, yes sir, real mind boggling 
Of who do that, who do what?
Sore cheek bones, and the groans
Moans of fine pursuit 
That turns onto itself, constantly 
Like dark and deep waters in the dark
And deep thinking of a spangled sea

Octavia Paz was following me.

Monday, June 12, 2017

A Language for the Unknown

When your name came across the loud speaker
I stepped away from the truck stop to listen.
Yep! That was your name alright, except with
an unusual rolling of the “r.”  I thought you’d
materialize like a narcotic vapor over one
after waking out of a fainting spell.
A butterfly came down and I kissed it.
I guess that was what I was supposed to do
on the sidewalk, in the moonlight,
with the large trees budding.
A Frisbee landed out in the field
and two pidgins clamored after it.
I handed them each a dollar.
I started to feel you were lost somewhere.
That somewhere misplaced was the luggage
that held your beautifully folded arms.
I reached down for your razor,
followed an onion to your feet,
its core pealed down to the tearful end.

Saturday, February 11, 2017

My Quiet Witness

Sometimes I wonder whether
my watery eyes or my knee ache
is because I kicked out the crutches
from some poor lass or was a good runner
who cheated.  The light keeps blinking
like cat in a bag drowning after my father
driving away from his wife, my mother
losing her license, my brother
unable to breathe at the end.
The whole bathroom sinking.
Giving us no other substitute.
A spyglass hoping to be evident.
A curl in the middle of a book
separating the epic tug after we’ve
been digging through the music.
God, sometimes I wish I’d be
forgiven long enough to sit down
on the rock I’ve been stitching
and convey the worn reason
the remainder of the night
looks at us with labyrinthine
perplexion. Or the real remembrance
 of things past and not some inability to translate
the title beats down on our canvas hearts,
but that is enough drumming for me tonight. 

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Into Evening

The involuntary
               platform appears
the steel rain departs
       florist advise
 the hidden heart
             erupting deaf
    the minnows break
                   the stirring water
    the sun diving
  in darts
            hold onto the air
    Amid the evening
                    other flashes

Wednesday, December 21, 2016


I need to say something soon before
my voice becomes a muffle and then
like stones in the stream bed.  The tips
of the hydrangea flowerets are blue
paint curls in the heart, color gently
flakes at the center.  Then comes the white
hot feeling of rolling an ankle over a stone.
Pollen dusts over the face of a stream.
The last stars from a crater of stars pass overhead.
I think, tonight, but the limitless
blue message of thought keeps passing me
like a downed plane flapping its baleful
advertisement.  Its impact like a good
person who cannot live up to an expectancy.
The letter carrier carries the apology.
I want to report the disappearance
to the milkman, but he is gone.
He has no business here.

Lacunal Contents

Today is not the day, and tomorrow
the landscape will not be ready
And the next day and the day after that, rare fruit.
Eventually, you will stop wearing your vest.
The lighthouse will light only on odd
days of the week.

Something drops, like a pebble
behind every good gesture
and at the end of the evening
all good gestures drop
without the proper postage
like the morning paper
unto a yard
of a family who has been on vacation
for months and will never return.

And at the end of the evening
others drop like clothes

distracted by warmer places, and stopping
to rub the fur of dandelions from their eyes
drop the questions of their wives into a bird's throat.

A cloud drops gently over the landscape of the day.

This is just one occurrence in the processions of mysteries. 

Thursday, December 15, 2016

Mistakes and Echoes of Mistakes

The rain cannot
separate now from the river.
Just as your dog
cannot separate itself
from night.
Her tumors have
finally stopped growing
and the thick necklace
is complete.
And no matter
how simple you
cannot comprehend
the ocean at night
with a sea of luminescent
jellyfish in it.
But maybe, I suppose
in the dark
one might
recognize the swallowing
the fading absence
or the moving fins that have not
even evolved enough to protect you.
You see where this is going.
There are other reasons why
we bury things that culture
and anthropologists have failed
to figure out.  It has more
to do with ourselves
digging things up than we think.
But now it is time to dig
ourselves through
the damp darkness once again
to listen to an inadvertent song
and drink in the cold air.
Already we
are beginning to feel safe.
We are beginning
to feel the language returning
to the pages of the book
whose words had only
left for a moment
had blurred where
we stopped seeing them.

Wednesday, December 14, 2016


the light enter the dancing girls
mnemonic footwork like a hurricane
sent to rescue you from the trailer home.
Now the winds sweep your wild nights.
It is like this even after waking up from a long dream
of fishes or goldenrods.  The grainy music
distorted by the legs of tress and swing sets.
The hallways are littered in pretzels
the outline of a young boy's face.
No matter how many times we've put him to bed
he sees something and pokes his head up.
There is enough smoke and dust but
never a good jazz band.
Not even the ones that keep popping up in poetry
can compete.  Something begins to form
but it is not a ghost crying out its displeasure,
angry about its state.  But on some nights
when the sick do cry, sometimes watch, you'll see,
dancing to a god that left her no home
no bridge to kick a stone from.

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Fact Realized

You try to get everyone
over.  You try to crush
insects just so it isn't
messy.  You try not to feel
like you've just taken a swig
of ocean juice.  Like a martini
glass has held wine, or the fuzz
hanging off your chin is
an old way of thinking.
You notice even the bumpy
maintenance crew.  The smoke
hanging in the bushes
has just breathed a star into orbit.
Sand swirls in your mouth.
And then you learn
that your friend has died.
I had wanted to invite you.