There are some parts of the world
Where writing begins at the upper right edge
For those who know how to write.
May 182013
May 142013
We meet
only in the humming of the wind in my ears
the smell of winter fog
and the contours of a face,
ever changing with my changing thoughts.
My poetry refuses words today.
May 032013
Hello how are you do I really care
The language changes but the question’s still there
Spare a quarter, a dime a minute of your time
Have you ever hung a sign degrading what little is left of your mind
Apr 212013
The dead are lined up according to size and type,
as neatly arranged as clothing in a drawer,
records on a shelf,
bullets in a chamber.
A quiescent machine waits to lift them,
its steel mouth clamping one, nipping at mossy skin
and flaccid lichens.
Mar 222013
Closer and closer his little spaceship came
To the event horizon of the black hole.
This was his great adventure.
What he had studied all his life
Might today be proven true or false.
Or perhaps not proven at all.
Feb 052013
I am already a wild ghost – only ever half here. How can something like that die?
Out West, were the fog creeps low and steady over the hills and twists
up the morning dew and rising sun in its fingers, there is enough of what is real
to buoy up this freckled skin forever.
Jan 292013
Some think that Scotland sterts somewhere near Perth
-or close by Edinburgh she at first draws breath.
While speedin’ Heiland –wards tae don a kilt
An’ nod at skirl o’ Bagpipes and the lilt
Jan 272013
Palm fronds shudder in the wind,
shaking off light, like tinsel.
I left the thick, wet state
and descended along the coast
to live in this strange desert
of coyotes in the hills, barbed clubs
growing out of the ground…
Jan 232013
Her baby seems to enjoy the bus ride
The rocking and windows vibrating in the panes
She tells me she’s not going anywhere
Just around the mountain and back
Jan 142013
There’s a part of a man
Deep inside, rooted in
Ribs and muscular tissue
Between his heart and soul
That longs for the sky.