Early this morning there was a
dream of our little girl dog so
recently gone and I was about to
cover her with a blanket as she snoozed on
the bed then saw it was really
me in a tiny dog costume so I
walked on after the briefest cuddle and
in the morning proper started
to wash last night’s leftovers and
with one sponge swipe the wineglass is
reduced by a third with no blood—
Thank you great goddess of the wide
earth thank you goddess of recycling thank
you goddess who loves laughter thank you
Category: Poetry
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I was on edge I’ll say because
of too much sun why not and it
didn’t matter where we stopped for the night
I just didn’t want to go back
and trap myself. Again. You have to move
carefully when you find you’re a
head in a jar. But I’m so tired. My
words wade the short cold waves and end
where they began in a still mumbling mouth
forever filled with acrid liquids
wolfed by the woof and warp of unwashed
waters all the days of this half life
for half a dozen or so bubbles that
break with awful scents and few clear notes
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before the stone had splintered the
skull, I knew I’d gone too far. I
adore these tiny flowers, but
no one owns them, and then the great
detective, all those fine speeches,
reversals, triple meanings. No
wonder most only stand and wait
by the fire gulping down amber
Then in a moment it’s resolved
and all that tension as the speech
slowly built its trap and found its
treasure as it ever did and
then tea and cakes and time and in
some time, time, flowers, a stone, and
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and some days, Pentheus, like the
rest of us, is torn to souvenirs
by his mother and her maenads
as just a few words will poison
park and pond so you forgo the
many strings that tie you to the
rest and restless and still tug in
the struggle against the sun, and
no I can’t really see either but
a few more steps and we’ll rest for today
you see sometimes we have to go
on like this and suffer another prelude
one day molten gold or the certainty
of a chrysalis under a leaf
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but something already gone glitters
so this soft pen now tries to lift
from the dream of a fish who is
determined to explore the dry
and those waves now gentle reach and
just here set a small movement in
motion that may more or less
resolve into something like melody
though even today as the winds
wild what survives seems sufficient
miracle to keep these sails tight
for a moment while I try to
gather a few parcels of silence
they say it’s worth more than gold
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I’ve been banging my sore fingers
on this keyboard more than forty
years now and can still hardly carry a
tomb or remember many standards
and was never good with theory or
practice and one sour slip can send me
spiraling away from melody
for millennia and maybe
history or the twisted strands
that compile me or is this just mask and
pantomime I bleed to move on
now and clear friends of the past know
I will smile at the songs we shared and
no there never was an accordion
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as Paul Anka licked those white cubes
from between her dainty toes, I
knew it was too late for me so I flew
into the nearest more or less wood to
let my momentum slow to sap and
all those fictional women of
my graphic novel past were just
as complicated as needed
and as whatever else and, less
but I hear like is drawn to like
or the other way around I
know I should just go out and play
apart from now there is no other day
but this urge to heap mountain on mountain
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who wins the skirmish when no one dies
clever old fool you managed to chain one
of the oldest deathless ones whose job was
death which screwed up the works since he
couldn’t work so how can we eat when
a week later the chicken’s head
still begs for grain it cannot store or how
do we please these greatest and most
fickle gods when a hundred perfect
oxen with golden horns embossed with blood
cannot take their rest and the sheep slipping
on its intestines tomorrow shakes its
head and bleats at you again and through the
night so you see the boulder was justice
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but I will carry it out as agreed.
Though I fear this may be the last
time as my contract has not been renewed
so instead I will take myself off
to a greener shore and tie my hand to
remembering no of course my
dear you’re perfectly safe and I know this
is not what we were hoping for or
talking about I never sit by a
fire in the dark how does it come to you
nothing else felt so light and exact I
was afraid of using it up, but no
ten thousand things drowned and swept away
each root I grabbed slipped through the mud
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it’s hard to know which to trust which
to tune out but maybe jot it
down maybe we have but one skull
in which to rule them all like it
or lump it they said back then and
some day with sufficient shine could
end up in some dead-end line
bludgeoned into space for padding
instead of dealing with the tricky, yes
I was about to intone, there have been
few days other than hard and
yet wildflowers everywhere
if you stop and stoop and zoom and yes I’m
serious and yes we could use much more
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trying to remember the names
of all those Greeks and no denying it
through inaction and stubborn nature we
have chosen this and also true
we never quite got this world & its works
& grew to love the shores in simple ways
& apart from above can’t see why
so go over it from the start there’s him
with the boulder him with the bird
none of it seems to turn out that great
so here we will will wildflowers
and a breeze so they might not leave. But no.
You’re right. No one blames no one and
no one poked out my eye no one
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for a time I hunted a tune and walked
the parched steppe far from the clusters of white
towers and I know there are fine folk there
I won’t mumble the educational
-industrial complex. Some of
its products do not fail to amuse and
inspire. But my stock of sharpened reeds, soot
knucklebones, and, please, let me start again.
There is fear of water, whirlpool,
and her of the cave on the way to the
singers who will soon break you down to the
up and rebuild you in the style of a
prevailing house as part of its wall and
another wall and waves always higher
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Summarize this you bastard spawn of a
soggy ventriloquist dummy now in
the golden phase of the latest storm from
the usual types. I hope it’s
long before you truly get this
world, Mr. Betamax. I’m so
tired of these geese and the hot
shiny eggs shoved down already
swollen throats for a few dabs of
attention from the attentionless. Of
course, I’m so far removed from it all up here on
the summit in the clear sky with my single cup
of limpid dew to carry through the evening as
I wait for her word from the bountiful deep dark
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what sound would surface near the sound
near the end of winter’s statement
the iced-over suns unmoved gulls
chase gulls for morsels of mussel
what sigh from that sharp air what would
we hear if I said no thanks to that junk
on the horizon if I could tell what
I hid so well do I wait for the cold
green mornings to split into petals the
color of what’s buried taking thoughts
I would have wasted but what would it sound
like opening my mouth the way I
want do I keep carving notes on sheets
of ice as herons hide their necks
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never learned the art of reaching out
but read a book or two and tried
to love a little world with what it could
and then could not not to be unclear
of course it’s just this hearse running
it’s ragged curse over the bones
and their children back in the mines
thanks to you know who who would
not move an inch for you though you
suck his filthy brim and beg for snacks
until the air runs out and new games start
so we must learn the fresh languages
fast or we won’t last a minute like that
time I could look nowhere else but down
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Forget what you know sit softly let
it lull you with the sound of hundreds
of pens simultaneously
writing up all those mistakes think of clouds
over that chasm you love Forget
it start again don’t think of that
tickle in your throat keep sharpening
your teeth we’ll see if we can’t find
a few layers of breathable
fabric as you start off Forget
the ad that’s still following you stinging
wind a heavy boot brittle grasses
brightly crunch give the pills a chance
while you stumble on ice in darkness
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sorry that was just me, you see
it’s hard to control the exhalations
but once dry I’ll try to spill a
story that seems to go somewhere
while tunneling beneath the foundations
I don’t want to blame this ancient
circuitry or curriculum
but the mean of the few years I’ve
managed can feel a bit mean
and, I mean, I don’t want this mean
to be my main anymore but
I must make marks and some mean
folks may escape though meaning well and take
their crack at rosy meaning until morning
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if we accept that other people
might exist in the same way as our
selves, then what? A key to make it all
make sense or another soggy hand
in the pretzel bag and yes perhaps
we must though more rebellions in the
future are all but certain we must
choose and walk no matter the bubbling
shadows and maybe when the eye is
made whole and interest rates more robust
and we have constructed a less pompous
way to talk but the amanuensis
stops and can not land half of half
of another word for all the shaking
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it must have been an hour or so
that I sat and strained was it screams
or through too many panes laughter
or worse I thought that was bone bumping
glass there again do I ring the filth
and ruin two evenings or save one
life or am I adding one and one
and getting mayonnaise or am I
next up on the newstainment prank show
I hear some express affection as
though they were paid by the decibel
but it’s hard for me to imagine
or maybe through slats my wide eyes
helped them coin a fresh entertainment
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For Minnie
Our hearts are pretty broken over here. Our little girl, Minnie, is no longer with us. She was a sweet girl, a terror to every kind of rodent, and the greatest of companions. She will be missed more than I can say.
Here’s a little anecdote about her from a different season…
Fleece lined pants, a wool shirt under
a button-down shirt, over a
half zip wool pull-over, wool socks,
waterproof shoes. One more shirt for
M the harness then a little
L. L. Bean jacket then my small
L. L. Bean jacket and out we
walk. There was snow in the morning
and salt will sting the pads so I
carry her down the stairs across
the parking lot to a soft mound
of snow to raise some steam then up
into my arms across and then
in to the warm waiting evening
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who can bear more wailing about
hundreds of afternoons slumped on a
mound of sand with a single palm
tree tall and straight & quick home to
my mother the microwave quick
Gilligan’s Monkees Dream of What’s Diff’rent
Happening!! The Jeannie I Favorite
Strokes My Martian Island all better than
me cornered with their oh so funny
no escape Flintstones or fucking
Scooby-Doo, I do hate you but
I kept it shut as instructed
and when old enough for the key, you see
it’s more cheap food and laughter, canned
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What do we make of our song-free Orpheus
fumbling Odysseus almost Lucifer with
fingers of flame Perhaps he remembers the light
from that distant place and justice so a gift of
grain and cocoa for the amazing muses ofthe mountain top and the other women, dead
imprisoned tunneling, then old Ouranos grows
a pair and loses them and him in waves with no—
Though our Prometheus believes no one of theunderworld and darkens his face before they lie
about his friend not yet dead—they don’t get the joke
but the shadow brother did break the rule so thesea again and driving back half a Eurydice
reversed—so eyes forward or you’re back in it, baby.
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I decided I would give up
writing the musical about
Charles Guiteau and the prose-poem book,
Twice as Nice as Mice on Ice. Who
knows what’s best and what’s a mistakenearly every bit of gold I’ve
chased has curled to a brown leaf in
my little claw but I’ll give those
old groans some sound and rough shapes andpadding for their feet as they find a place
and sing them to sleep if they let me and
maybe after years of shufflingwe’ll have a little machine that
sweetly encircles it all
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with luck and a sweet incept the rest may
flow just don’t get too obscure or you may
trip in your light and don’t worry if the
end comes first or pay too much heed to that
needy voice from the middle or convinceyourself that you know about conclusions
though yes each belch is yours and yours
alone as a clutch of eggs or
the slowly unfurling limb of a pre-or post-historic forest the
teeth of which I have long loved and
please accept this apologyI never meant to and never cared to
make puzzles though I play one on TV
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I mostly agree, but think they
could use a nudge. The idea
that whatever we may be may be
subject of some study is sound
but to say those old scientists are justin it for the publishing rites is more
than I will digest so let me suggest
the potentiality of
a labyrinth of secondary liteentertainment based on the primary
data. I think it’s naïve to imagine our keepers failing to laughat our low tragedies or exude no
small sigh as we toddle off to what’s next
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try to write a face the eyes aren’t
right teeth crooked the wrong way the
night cold the flame hidden I make
another cut so long but too
late across the blue ink sounds of[inaudible] but leave it there
even if it barks all night will
never invade the earnestness
of tiny drinks while the bright blackso tight we thought the stones in our pockets
might help us too with a few tweaks
it could be the scene of your first triumphbut let’s not crack the old door anymore
those dreams are grand but I wake a headache
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Once you’re reasonably seasoned
I want to complain about my
hands and the where and what that they
have failed to do no matter which
precipice certain delicatepapers have been balanced upon
today which way they flail is of no
grey matter for any of us
as the storm threatens from each point ofthe compass rescued from the bright
dust at the bottom of a mound
of sticky surreal boxeson the outskirts of a
once-distinguished suburb
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that sentimental day we recite our
atrocities a la mode which at the
time rhymed though less in retrospect
which we hope may serve as a warning
to any newcomers peddling deweygospels though we had not calculated
all that this strange gravity would inquire
of our ancient components which
likely will take weeks to tweak butif you’re around we can descend
the canyon and investigate the
rumors of this miraculous vegetablethey say it’s like drawing your hand
with the hand that’s like drawing your hand
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he heard a tink and thought of his wish and
where his hand didn’t want to go
and went there and there it was a
perfect miniature aureate
boulder so thanks were given and soon asystem—spray bottles, a special
strainer, fresh hand towels, a glass
container for storage and sometimes the
irregular borders brought bloodwhen they slit but he learned to love
fingers in filth for those gleaming nuggets
and later he’d have such elaboratebut fundamental stuff made most of which
was melted down in the end or, after
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I can see their unwillingness
to laugh and let go of that loud
restless voice that caused so much
trouble but which way if I want
oh never mind I’ll stay here andply the wildflowers with
ever more restless names
and try to see in the crazing
of frost on the landing two hoursbefore dawn some message or hope
for a few more steps before the beeping
and surveying on all sides asI sit and think of some tasty hasty
something for the some bit of some sentence
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Some mornings I feel bad for those who had
to die for me to waste away
Anatolian and Achaean
Andorian and Orion
all due to the creep of those firstwounds we fight hard to not turn brittle
or snap and for a while I wondered
if it was all some psycho-sexual
game fueled by the misery of othersor perhaps the two were
really one troll who knows
maybe it was a badday that happened every day in
all caps I can’t say but I will
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And these long pauses when no one
asked but then did I I think maybe from
time to time but no not enough you
see I wanted it all yesterday and
never learned to let my liquor dripnot that I wanted to learn I wanted
to complain I was unfound though
that complaint is unfounded after
decades of this and more of this athumbs up or heart renews no lease while
that scab-picking goblin prince longs
to turn away once-adored faces whenand if but of course I would grow new
arms despite these keenly sharpened teeth
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Is it to quiet those sounds from above
that won’t leave me alone or to drown the
noise of the dog’s desperate licking where
does the source hide itself but such thoughts are
not really for me I get too excitedrest badly and when the excursion starts
I’d rather stay in bed but mostly I
want to write about something besides an
ugly bag mostly filled with water thoughit holds some moderate pleasure toothsome
despair and thick clotted rumination,
which may not be to everyone’s taste buthelps exercise the moist gray maze when
I would have had little else but sleep
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Ten more pounds as you breath this air in
while small flying things establish more
colonies on a significant
portion of your disregarded
land mass while an occasional stormbrings no relief to little Tom
in his prospect of geraniums
thumbing in peace far from the noise of bones
being broken for the amusements of childrendays grow too dark under the broiler
strange birds visit for a moment and
fly back as one of my fatherssaid those wandering clouds at least
are worth a couple careful words
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I’ve Been Reading
Ada Rae Merwin, T. S. Coleman,
Allen Louise Eliot, Edna
Limón, Geoffrey D. Graham, Anne Glück,
John Kalytiak Davis, Emily
Gay, Joshua Sexton Cummings,Jorie Whitman, Gertrude Stein, John
Armantrout, William Aimee Wordsworth,
Tracy K. Marvel, E. E. Ashbery,
Wanda Joy Ginsburg, Kimiko Bennett,W. S. Dickinson, John Rich Smith,
Ross Berryman, Andrew Keats, Walt
Nezhukumatathil, H. HarjoHahn, Adrienne Chaucer,
Olena St. Vincent Millay,
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it’s often the way when days are
less generous with their light and
walking the dog in trees furry
scents and a noise near or far you
choose to ignore those little hopesfor the weekend with green softness
over the lawn insects float or
dart the breeze that might keep me up
tonight I know it’s not your faultyou know the darkness catches up before
summer gets going I should stop
saying you know you know anywhoo thelast time we met you were spitting
in the eye of some hurricane
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other people’s postcards and the
problems you carried from home but
with new hats from the shop they said
you must visit after some mountain
muttering about air some vistaback and forth in brightening dark
cold coffee chirps though later and
once the music mercifully
stopped and after the little chapel’soily beams were whittled into
pencils for disappointed tourists
the sound of the little fountaintook us though we didn’t know how to go
in the small blue shell or its cold shadow
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But we’re not in that desert anymore
honeysuckle on the breeze bad news
finds us dead nettle stork’s bill what else
did she teach me as we barrel toward
the base please remember your trainingand try to finish your letters though
not every editorial will
be published we have done what we could
to spread word of this once-in-a-millennium sales event we
wouldn’t want them to miss but we must
carry on or deal with that peskyvoice talking about time and something
jogging though as long as we keep busy
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It’s the way though innit the muse leaves
and your mouth aches for more song, but
the veins are filled with foul air and
dust muscles do not move So what
do we wait like house cats why notas long as we’re in service we
must serve and hope the mistress one
day deigns to lay down a circle
of honey no, of course we’re notworthy but keep the pen handy and with
any luck we’ll find some lunch and
sell a few things and maybe tipthat dusty bottle from the snow-capped
shelf where the third expedition failed
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But how can I talk about it my
images veiled and the word I want
grows small in a mouth while no one waits.
The waves haven’t stopped for a minute but
amidst the churn there’s a still bubblereserved for you and one other though
there have been so many lost packages
and delays in dreams in which you slowly
suffocate while delivering the speechthat could have saved you and in the back
of the room that talk that you wanted to
have with her maybe just a few words mightdissolve the dam but I think too much
of the poison hows the light escapes
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But first into the palanquin don’t
worry it’s all above-board and just
a little indulgence for the weekend
when certain leaves are likely to
fall or stay though we find it’s nothalf as bright or sweet as we had
hoped so underground for a few
rounds and yes we would rather be
back at the dig where we hope toconfirm our suspicion that the
dinosaurs were really quite small
and by means of a process unique tothe ancient earth over barely
countable aeons grew enormous
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You think you know the way, but two turns past
those thick oaks and you feel you’re rushing
boldly into some imaginary
battle without reading the instruction
manuals all the while calmly writingbut too calm shouldn’t there be a thousand
lightning strikes each second but
maybe this is the gray way
far from those warm golden fields wherewith the first crocus we try to
place the best bits next to each other
and hope some small energy maypass but the experiment has not been
successful so I may try to breathe again
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You see, since we escaped I’ve had the odd
liberty of thought and this cogitation
has uncovered several quite serious
plot holes which I’ll fill you in on later
but first where is that golden bottle whoseessence you say rhymes with late summer
which too many have claimed is our only
commodity but I never
studied such things and fear I speak out ofseason and if so beg the courts’ pardon
and would happily, instantly, return
to my cell to scratch out what remains witha few favorite books I dreamed about
as a boy in the bough of a tree
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I couldn’t see the myth in my
early rising and had to rely on
this box with a badly worn recording
device and a failed maze which would
with any luck add some seasoning tothe tedious reading of the
will which leads me back to the original
problem (art, rime) though fathers’ words
about not quitting ring in theholes that once (I think) were ears and what’s so
terrible about quitting when
they expect you to speak nose-deep in asewer but this rain will not ruin our
picnic and yes it’s rude to mention it
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hoping for something chocolate covered
hurry up wait what was I saying the
shoreline shortens birds gone from the sky due
to a lack of how’s it with you those headaches
back I have just the oil and volcanoesfor it though maybe the coasts blame the
center and vice versus our scattered
poems may stitch it but we’re in it
now did you hear what the finalbutterfly whispered as your phone
oh I’m no better I just like
to fly and sting so maybe youshould check out the dog filter
that clown one does nothing for you
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it then sails over that hill like hot oil
down your leg but you need to get dressed for
the evening execution though since our
cat food is gone perhaps first a stroll
to the river past the perimeterguards and through the rubble passage in the
southwest corner where hopefully
our stash of obscene poetry journals
is still intact in rooms so completelysimilar to this dusty light we may
have been poor and by god we will be so
again but where was I goingwith this nearly full skin the sky
is getting dark the bushes full of feet
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in an age when close and distant cloud
I make what you won’t want to eat and wait
for the snow scrape and salt that wakes us too
early or too late little mountains pen
in sugared cars I try to lift this snowwith homemade rhythm into clouds
like berries almost black but how
long do I have to long for long-lasting
mud and birds who stay a bit and fly backa breath that leaves green leaves to shake
so let’s finish the crackers and
call them cookies we can watch amovie through the neighbor’s window
just balance on this pile of skulls
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three kinds of salty licorice
a sweatshirt with an immense kitten
some more maple almond cashew
butter a disc of aged white tea
cardamom seeds in their own grindera multipack of Sugru a
Kaweco Lilliput fountain pen
click lick click but is it too late to pluck
the prized moon-blooming oh you’re back already—what did you say about the lack of laurels
in the breezy storage space—perhaps we
should look instead through an Olympic screenthat obscures high and low so the worm may
spare my stomach on a warm winter day
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Perhaps there is something more, but with
the pressure of an undigestible
chicken knuckle cartilage nugget
pressing perhaps a breathless sip of
weed killer with lime, but no, that’s notthe monster I want to feed though a
look at my neglected hooves shows me I
have made the usual mistake of
trying to coin a word thatmeans checking to see if the dog wants
to learn to dance as a small way to
lengthen my displeasure with this workwhich is far from interesting, but
keeps me flush with fresh digital badges
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More errors squashed found squashed
then more of more of the same and by this
point in the story you’re looking
for the restroom while nodding politely
but this little fire you’ve changed theflint kept her fueled and ready but hope to
of course the yoke left a deep mark
the fingers then got confused wrong
words stumble out needing mendingand you no longer yearn for that
historic restaurant where once
your teeth ground through a heavy sky butit has air conditioning and is not
affiliated with many poor choices
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I was never sure which were jokes
which mistakes it all happened so
fast as I was thinking of some
thing else so I’m sure I missed a
lot of context but learned to be careful openingcabinets as those stuck stacks of dishes might unstick
and whitewater down at other times they
may test your eyesight on a small silver
splinter of moon but by next summer wewill move on to new games and leave
the unfinished trilogy in
some still closet across town butwe only bring it up if enough
have shared equally trying things
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And this question of how leans into the
darkness inside our attempts to start a
fire, this apple, this bamboo in a pot.
How far can we trust it when we turn our
backs? How red is my red, really? And doand do you notice it in the brochure
you couldn’t put down and kept hidden so
or was it this squirming dream of again
unwittingly shared though months passwithout anyone mentioning it
anyway, the event was full of sweet
words gentle smiles from about five paceswe knew we would likely never see each
each other again on any timeline
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After the storm left cool air and a snack
of peanut butter and a fig now I’m
hungry again just thinking of it now
where was I going with no plan nothing
to wrap in some rhythmic finery orwhat passes for such yes I’m now running
out the clock as you guessed though we could turn
this thing around if we had the will to
reach into the bush braving blood forsmall berries that might by now be ripe
though hard experience has taught us that
turns around the old neighborhood turn nothings around and the last bump that kept you
up still lurks in the cold sweat of your back
other animals 