on the last page of the notebook
steadied by a thick
stack of New Yorkers
the pen
but the dog in her cuteness
the urge for coffee what kind of
is that a
the dishwasher needs unloading
and the heat flows out
from my fingers over
ever higher rooftops
Category: Poetry
-
-
I say you because I can’t
say me
I mean I’d rather not the little
electric shock when we
lie the air in the room
not quite light or true
why not invent another I by which
I mean you and sacrifice
this it for its shortcomings
and oceans
of weaknesses but
maybe it’s not as
dramatic as all that have you
stopped to consider well go on
what were you going to say
-
True False Starts
But maybe.
That book and the twist they rave about.
Grit in your shoes from the famous shoreline.
How to cook that dish we loved from the Thai place.
Onion chili cashew something with good pain.
Not in the dark windows at the mall or
medieval bling of those other windows.
But still.
Footsteps of others who.
One day long ago a.
Did I maybe.
Watch the birds stalk small fish as the sun sinks.
The revolving door of breath.
Even this headache.
What difference will one more restart
-
Carefully
late in spring it creeps
in a spider has had a
thousand children in the corner
I discover one day looking
for a salve for this pain in
the twinge in the like you
want to hear about my
latest diagnosis anyway
they assured me that the sound
of splintering bone is normal
for this time of year but don’t
worry about it try this new game
-
Small Bones of the Feet
Turning the corner
but it was long ago
the pen feels funny
turning the corner at the
end of the parking lot
where the water
abruptly ends or
starts a marshy
spot long-growing
green a few small herons
waking maybe a dream
of clouds of silver fish
fading as they begin the long
stalk and the poem just sort of
ends there though I wanted
to talk about childhood homes
and the deep wound
of contentment we carry
on our hunts
if we’re lucky but
wait do you
hear that new
bird calling
-
the trick
is to let
your handwriting
grow
so small
that it is
mistaken
for the internal
monologues
of ants
-from Talking Too Fast
-
the little tragedies I take
so seriously
but look
a woodpecker
and my dog’s
ears
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Talking Too Fast
If anyone’s interested in some fresh new poetry, may I suggest my new book, Talking Too Fast?
A guaranteed cure for the summer blues! Or wait, is it a guaranteed cause… I can’t remember.
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If I talked to people
It’s not all about haiku, is it? is a question I imagine people might ask if I started talking to them. The answer is no, not at all. There are quite a few other pies with which I’m making my fingers sticky. Hmmm. I’m going to put a stop to that metaphor. Anyway, I recently put out a book of old doodles from an old blog that hopefully are still (or were ever) slightly amusing. If you’d like to check it out, here’s the link.
If you’re interested, they mostly started out as a scribble with a pen or brush and then I tried to find the face in the scribble and write up a little story about the person. I don’t know if that helps, but there it is.
other animals 