how do I hold this pen that winks
and becomes a tree trunk
what question would you have me ask
the mice in such a rush
when they start to talk about you
you’ll wish it were blossoms
with just a grain of sand to carve
but it won’t come to that
Category: Poetry
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what hope in this pen and an ink
nearly invisible
earlier the morning sun on
the trees made me think of
large mammals and their humid scent
in the sun in the grass
the countable galaxies of
bright dew and now the chair
makes sarcastic music of my
musing but the night is
still and so wide without a moon
-
those little hopes for the
weekend with green softness
over the lawn insectsfloat or dart the breeze
was so important thatit might keep me up tonight
I know it’s not your problemthe pickles came out so well
you know the darkness
catches up before
summer really gets
going I should stop
saying you know you
know anywhoo thelast time we spoke
you were spitting
in the eye of
a hurricaneit’s always the way when the days get less
generous with their light and walking the
dog you see furry legs in the trees and
a noise near or far you choose to ignore
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Who 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. Harjo
Hahn, Adrienne Chaucer,
Olena St. Vincent Millay,
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Sonnet
with what time is left listen to
air conditioners drop drop drop
on the used tea bag of summer
while the waves of heat hit you on
uneven shards of sidewalk—though
later perhaps you’ll find some sweet
solitude and dream some drip could
bring a forgotten bloom or rare
herb back but the brink keeps creeping
and that green shade so far away—
so retreat to concrete above
the noise but not the heat and make
a quiet in which your fingers
if nothing else may sprout some leaves
-
imagine the day fine and the gremlin
in the intestine who shatters the desk
before the final exam to stay warm
through an unremarkable winter may
smile before the surprise final exam
-
three kinds of salty licorice a sweatshirt
with an immense kitten some Maple Almond
Cashew butter compressed white tea cardamom
seeds in their own grinder a pack of Sugru
a Kaweco Lilliput fountain penclick 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 screen
to obscure the high and low so the worm may
spare my stomach on a warm winter day
-
no more synthetic motor oil
milkshakes from now on just
the nectar of golden
suffocation under a sudden
shower of compliments
for a one-star reviewand my hands remain clean. Though
this knife of yearsand never chose to explain. To this day
nothing grows there
-
in those dependent days they worked
nights and days and when home slept so
we had to stay quiet despite
the urge to loudly play so we
kept the TV low, laughed with the
laugh track and didn’t understand
spring and winter and spring again
-
before the day when the day if
but today
let a song slip through your fingers
find that last breath
barreling toward some release but
the sand in your
shorts the ice cream begins to melt
for a second
you forget that this is the way
the world moves and
that’s not
quite it either there was a kind
kind of light maybe
it falls and smalls and
smaller the world
spins people go
to parks interviews
you hear a voice
but the words garbled
maybe with a
little work but
that’s how it all
starts again freed
from one hole
you fall in another
-
I.
His clothes so out of fashion you wonder
if the gentle breeze from the willow will
shatter him into an ant hill of teeth
and trinkets you can sell at the marketII.
Your fabled jewel that could
end the conflict but when
you tell the story drops
of blood fall from your handIII.
Tended with a heat gentle as
breath until the crow bubbles up
soon you will understand her voice
as though you too were from the moon
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New ebook!
Well, e-chapbook, really. I’ve been working very hard on this little collection of a dozen sonnets and I’m glad to say that they’re finally ready.
Here’s a sample. Enjoy!
we ran out of gas before we got there
metaphorically of course the car was
just an ancient generation’s notion
of freedom or some such so later whenwe seemed to be writing a story for
the new employer on the optimal
monetization of the eternal
memes (to avoid the friends convenience made—
their brotips and conversations like photos
of completely uncluttered interiors)we made a slow-motion escape attempt
but were swallowed by the slothy summerand rose at noon to find the cicadas
gleefully gone on their fatal picnicCheck out my books page if you want to see more.
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If/Then
if fire cracks the mirror
then clouds may part to reveal her faceif night passes like a kidney stone
then the box is returned unopenedif the damp gets irrevocably in
then an unequivocal answer will be foundif the suburbs are raided
then your recipe will be forever changedif we ignore first principles
then insects will tire of carrying us
-
when we meet at which cafe or museum shop
I will be all smiles and jokes but looking
left and right too often as though some shadow
but what are you watching these days what post
made you rage? this black mud around my feet
never mind I see your shoes are dark as well
but why don’t we talk about dessert instead
of the world war of the week or even
this flattening heat you say you saw something
that reminded you of something and something
something
so leaves a ghost
still hungry that refuses to tip
-
All the Parts
I
as in a dream in which we must play all the parts but self-consciously the work doubles and suffers as he turns to drink and loose video gamesbut unlike this dark wood newly sprung up around the house the chance of coffee or anything decent for lunch recedes
when we were stranded beneath the white waves it was only those voracious years of romance novels that saved the ship and sailors
so once properly cooled and decorated the cake of my previous actions could still prove delicious
it was never meant to last as long as it has though some seeds only sprout after a fire we never knew needed so much tending
and we started off so strong but whether we like it or not we’re in a purely habitual forest now
perhaps this is what the song is really meant to be about or could be under slightly different meteorological conditions
II
a dream self-consciously suffers loosewood around the house of coffee or anything for lunch
beneath the waves of romance novels that
decorated the cake of my previous could
as long seeds sprout a fire so
strong whether we like it or not
perhaps this is what is meant to be
III
as in a dream we play all the doubles and drink this dark coffee beneath waves only years of romance novels saved my previous actions never meant to last as long as though some started off strong we’re in a purely habitual song about slightly different conditionsIV
in a dreamthis dark house
beneath waves
my previous actions
after a fire we knew
started off in
perhaps this song
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Having darkened my hand with dark ink in
an age when close and
distant are cloudy unaided having
made so much that nobody wants to eat I wait for the latest
historic storm and the
scrape and salt that wakes us too early
or too latemodel mountains pen in
sugared cars I try tolift the snow with a wave
of homemade rhythm into
sky like berries almost blackbut do I fracture some rule with
this spell how many feet do I haveto long for long-lasting mud
and the birds whovisit though we won’t learn
their names this yeareither but the tracks lead
to a curve turningback on itself with a smile
the breath leavesgreen leaves shake
so let’s finish off the crackers
and call them
cookies we can watch
a movie through the neighbor’s
window just
balance on this skull
-
as I write with one foot
stuck in dark mud the otherunresponsive for reasons
I can’t discover lightsflicker throughout the day I’m
more full of fewer thoughts withair enough for me to ascend
the brilliant sharp mountainI have kept my pockets empty for
I have kept my back straight against throughyears of small work and I
see the check on its waybefore I’ve ordered it’s my fault
I should have gotten here as soon asthe neighbors finished dancing
on our ceiling and the skychanged to business casual blue so with
my knuckles sore I crack another nutbut what if one thought survives
somehow the pressure of spaceas the small stones crawl from the sea
wall after the grey is goneand we work into the overhyped
night sponsored by what you would ratherremember a castle visited
through a dream that always asks too much
-
what would it sound like
to walk out on the soundgulls chase
gulls for a bitthat sound
breathing
needlesso I hope for green
through the still black
door to see color to
burst into bloom into
color burst and burstwhat thoughts I would have liked
putting them on a shelf orbut what would it sound like
opening my mouth the waythe white heron hides its neck
am I too latedo I keep
taking notes on sheets of ice
-
with our top ten favorite escape routes
blocked by the Wal-Taco Bellrizon
Forest Fire we need a self-care momentso ask the app politely not to track
my suicidal cycles yes you’re right
about the screams and the force of friction
that grinds momentum to athough officially we did enjoy and
positively review his album of dogs
snoring once the spring had lost its youthfulspring we waited for the next
mandatory office partyand with a little effort
we drank it down despite
what we knew but faster andthough we seem to be getting
off topic here is something
you’ll need to convincingly
say if you want to move up
to the rank of cannibal
-
it should be more than cotton
candy though I lack
a recipe my hands have just
this tiny pen filled with
latency and the ladder is rottenhow many more nights
the sun bobs up and down
I look the other way that burning
you say it’s the weekend well why
not warp the mirror a little moreI can’t remember
why I entered this raceand I want to go to war with
each slender shadowmy feet must be cut from my shoes as soon
as the sun returns some color to those skulls
from under a rock hear me sing and walk on
-
waiting for the final
misstep I stay inside
air conditioner ping
tink heavy dark air I
make spear points for some self
I wish I could discard
that sinking twist in the
gut deprive the fall of
all color but the game
gives up and talks about
dreams of cooking techniques
sneaks under floorboards after
brandy and cigars in
an old book and then
we may taste something new
-
who birthed
a stone
shining
through cries
broken
picked it
up kiss
kiss put
it down
this white
page still
hates me
no that’s
silly
after
all the
great sea
flashes
stop that
the night
humid
for what
was his
name John
didn’t
he have
a big
something
car and
maybe
I’m wrong
headed
eyebrows
foreheads
who walk
by my
window
why do
they breathe
so close
to me
so pick
up the
white page
try to
forget
the names
swarming
the heat
-
in a smear of ink but let’s play
Yahtzee so tired of all my
jokes but how much for
anyway turn off the hearings
and listen to my stomach
full of primordial
soup for a bluer sky when
we all have a moment
to floss again and plant
some grain or at least
some new suspicions
-
before I’ve started I
give up on this little
story surrounded
by the almost noise
of air conditioners
slow unseen aircraft
the last breath of
why can’t I juststop me if you’ve heard this one
but no it’s just
from here we see
trees burning birds
thud to the ground
apartments collapse
spilling canned peas
and plastic dolls into
a stream and clouds
and clouds and clouds
-
riding the hills of Hellas I think of
. The landscape rich with bright
rock parting soil old pines older
mountains. That alphabet’s sounds
and symbols that with a little practiceour tour guide’s tense wanders—
Persephone is going to be taken
the world has been punished
Xerxes again is moving on Athens
Odysseus will have a clever idealoud and sure sun on white stone
the temple of Zeus here
and in ruins
-
such energy though these eyes still blurry
but the day begins early & takes the blame
for every flattened patch of fur on the highway
for the last two weeks and what do I know I
wasn’t there but you feel the flies surround
you & maybe we got off on the wrong
foot and maybe that’s all there is now
in the still heart of the great machine a
few sparks with dances to come and yes we
can agree that I use the word too often
but it’s still the right one for the job and
out in the forest it sniffs a mushroom
and moves on since the field guide’s at home and
doesn’t want to take any chances
-
the rain over my eyes a plastic yogurt container dug up after thirty years with a note asking about the neighbor’s rhododendron
and I want to quit this empty Dorito bag instead of violets world
but I lapse into something like prose and the gnomes leave in disgust their thimbles still half full of sticky beer
-
that sentimental day we recite our atrocities a la mode
which rhymed at the time though not in retrospectthey say it may never be untied though
will serve as a warning to newcomers
peddling some dewey gospelthe car wouldn’t start as we had not
calculated for the variance in the
new gravity and its effect on the ancient
components that likely will takeweeks to fabricate but if you’re still with
me we can descend into the canyon
and investigate the rumors
of this miraculous vegetablelike drawing a hand with the hand that’s drawing the hand
-
There’s this river underground
the birds sing of it as though
it were a gem as though a gem
were something they had interest in
though perhaps my translators
but no don’t let me blame them
this river at times packed
with grey slush moving fast
enough that the fish wish they
had eyes but here on the lost
real estate development the
philosophers have left
with the fabled food trucks
that won’t return
-
those anthologized ones could sing
a line like beaten gold and decree
the world this way or that for time
present and time to come but now
we face exile if we fail to laugh
at those who reach deep into earth
and instead must waste so much
pixelated paper for no
more than a productive cough
our hands are too weak for oars our
feet too tired to climb the hill
and report on the clean air so
we ask the wrong question now that
the mountains have lost their last green
spirits but we have no one
no priest to pronounce the signs singing
from the steaming liver—but no—let’s not
soil this by dressing up in a song long gone
one day the animals that remain may
gather to snort and stamp a sweeter
melody in air free from our cardboard
-
Seven in the morning of the first
of May already so bright in clear
blue air birds make their plans
immense. Time for our little
dog to darken the earth with her
mighty stream and then a few thimbles
of kibble. As I doze my way back
and glance at the car of the neighbor
I try to avoid
a wide disc of wood from some
unlucky loved tree on
the driver’s seat.
I guess everything I
thought about the spring is wrong.
-
before this morning just the blank blue
black before the sun fades it back to
the usual but now just feet above
the broken basketball hoop great Jupiter
and greater Venus inches apart and
though I don’t know it now the next
few black mornings in dark blue
cool they will sport in that spot in a
slow silver dance that even without
my glasses warms my hazy blue head
-
and though I’ve made so many plans
when I look in the mirror by accidentbefore a shower a small bird tumbles
down the stair forgetting about wings and sowe come to this moment when momentous
things may be mouthed into the shabby mirrorof the sky and from the neighbor’s apartment
something like a snort or sigh
-
dear friend, we’re it not for the tears held back—
but no, let me start again. After all, it is spring
and the half-clinging leather of newly uncoveredcorpses satisfies the flies. But that’s not it either.
Somewhere around here there is a small book from
the past that I’ve carried for years and never read.
-
in astronomical units
under my eyelid all the long summer
grit from the forgotten pyramid
my grasswe(e)t toes too long to trod over any meringue
a golden bubble chases the pigs
while Nobody plots
late unrhymable light my splitting shoe the same
Her trilling toes through
morning-star-wet grass
over calm water an orange concierge ogles a pint of rhyme
-
What solar-powered syntax will break through the city’s thick walls later wielding a heavy pen he stumbles never to blink again
But the pen won’t start so the precious possibility with a suitcase secretly packed disappears beyond the hill
Where the music comes from on those nights though despite his best attempts we left feeling as though we hadn’t eaten at all
-
I lift the pen but why my eyes slide down this poison face
but the sound of a bird I can’t
the glow of the sun
sinking what
else can I sayI waited too long and they’re already cleaning up so I grab some trash and throw it away they tell me to keep moving
when I slept in the forest those long years between research grants
salad days between immunity and editing
people always said I gave up too easily and mostly through song for some reason but that’s really none of my business you see I’m only paid to write these instruction manuals
leafing at monster cello sorry
it’s these new plant-based teeth
and the weight of this uniform from lack of sasquatch in the spring
did you see it that time like a flash of silver at the corner of your eye but never mind it was nice to see you again and we really should get together and no that’s OK I have utensils at home
-
From the Loathsome Autobiography of an Aspiring Hermit
we were all impressed that he had trained himself to overcome the sweating and fits that accompanied riding the elevator to the top floor where all those who helped you get to where you can finally hide the body in peace once you return those calls but really there’s nothing out there but the occasional chirp the grinding
sound of some industry in the distance that we all struggle to identify and some vague concern about retirement which tends to stay asleep except during certain phases of the moon in early autumn before the serious shopping starts and we depart for one day the air goes out and not every part of us is of use and of course those unseen forces you
go on about we peel off and set to one side to admire the fine and final finial detail but then we risk wandering past the border of our little park where we make miniature watercolor landscapes to please the passerby no matter how full of rage or foreboding before retiring once more to the dark closet with the machine that spits out hot air though today even that might be welcome as we question every word
choice and how many bodies we’re inhabiting while we wait for a more immediately impressive one to leap to the lips and be able to sing clear in the narrow streets where we wasted our youth on such games as need not be mentioned here though we remain softly pleased that its secretions were not the same as those found by the famous detective or his brother for that matter
-
Recovered Notes on the New Planet
the sky moves so fast a fragrance like marshmallow
what I thought a purple crystal dissolved in morning dew
evidence of the old civilization if the light is just right on the microscope slide
meters into the crevasse wrongly assumed it was scree
fields like maple syrup over a fresh argument
a language I’ve yet to master sneaks into my notes
returning to a previous marker an acrid smell sunken ground
stuck inside the tent autocorrecting hail
rivers like a laughing bandage to forget the insults of rock
the way forward often loops around in sharpened midday rain
what I wrote on a rock ran away
this mountain like melted gnomes who to name it after
a quiet spot by the river eaten by these mineral teeth
the silicavore’s thought projections jostle the rover’s gyro
a fine web like cotton candy spreads toward the sea by evening
I think there are dogs in the clouds
a dry brown leaf and voices in the wind almost enough like home
-
On Dry Land
The problem in rolling
out over the ocean
on a day like you might
ache for just a single
sheep of traveling cloudonly a few blinks
and the wind you are
worse off now without
taste birds circle
maybelater that one friendly
star and now paddle
with meaning maybe
you were going
the bright way all along
other animals 