the knot knowing must be a part apart from shifts and stumblings of a shuffling
ocean the sometime light from the tip of a pen or the bird song background
yet mornings honey blue and pink cotton candy with musings on beloved retail outlets so
again we try to caress and nail down some mostly smoke and threadbare wraith
and that’s all wet and good but those beloved clammy fevers know just enough to stay asleep until a honeysuckle smile
wandering sunlit sundress you see you lost seven moves ago
oh was that it is it over already can we
go home I lost my
special hat somewhere and souvenir
emotion and just noticed every
surface in this room is
covered with a faintly luminous
dust we neither know nor
know whether we should
hurry away from or pray to
and which me did what to get where we oh
it’s no use blaming him of the past who did
his pitiable best so from
here to where and how
much what do I need
to chew for some stillness
suffer the usual restless pick up A put down A once B calls out put down B when C and so on until only cracks in mud though at each
pause I whittle more of an escape from the wobbly platform if the rabbits will have me but the halting
way it unfolds and snarls is a little hat to
wear while everyone else enjoys
their but one gets tired
of the smudges crumpled computers
scabs shattered windows eating for
the photo binging because it’s
popular but once upon a
squeezed between
the window
screen’s slow blunt
hatchet working
out some
liberation
a carpenter
bee dried
we all long for a juicy full stop but if
you had one where would it end yes you’ve guessed
correctly for all I know but your skill tree is
not my skill tree which involves a cumbersome buffet of
negotiations regarding dessert so what’s
left of the agenda everyone
been bled as much as permitted in the next phase
we will certainly encounter certain issues we will slowly have
to knead and so on until we reach the center
for(r)est and off again on our obligatory rounds
hoping to believe again in
those pure unbiddens before the
inception of assorted retirement schemes
but who wants to read
that either and no this
levitation is sustained by light
in early spring almost dawn
walks through wildflower waves you
can almost believe and just
about forgive your younger so
selfish self that denied those
sunrises and why not build
another boat ask that it
be kissed in a hidden
spot on the port side
by a dark woman filled
with spring water and soon
loosed on the surge for
some distant honey or ice
it drags you down claiming it’s just a long-
term polishing that later you see should
probably be translated as sanding
mind you if they were still alive then
you go on like that for 500
or so pages and y’know we’ll see
but in the editing I saw the bog
I couldn’t drain slowly fill with bodies
hard candy and other small nostalgias
but never figured out how to sit or
how it fit together and you’re probably
tired of the complaints of old white me
I know I am I can hardly bare to
hear myself talk to myself in my sleep
and assume some reason a wildflower won’t though often a change of cuisine or scene could be enough but enough of these dollar-store writing prompts sure I wouldn’t enjoy such universal acclaim had it not been for The Promptory my magnificent though now defunct writing-prompt
showroom and sweatshop though I’ve read some of the articles you’ve mentioned for improving our lot and shape in swimsuits the trick is to turn this part counter-clockwise while depressing the small white tab for forty minutes each hour for the length of your contract
so I said why not take a stab at taking a break see the sea and see what happens but now it seemed to present a note of late summer grass too long submerged in still water so let it rot and replace it if and when any other if and when reach ripeness though who knows what colony may have flourished on the washed rind of that tepid advice for a queasy smile as far as this stomach can walk while empty a small star broadcasts its lukewarm burn
she still tells me the story whenever we play that game where we’re locked underground for eight to twelve years
but when your time comes you shrug you move you
know what happens to runners then it starts to sink
a bit but the bonds still tight grackles robins starlings with young or improving their homes with a simple melody
asking where it all went wrong but we must in
a different way after all wait my eye was pulled by that flash of flesh and dreams of blissful obedience
I never learned what the plant needed dark spots linger
leaves start to drop and group and maybe each solution
was but we did our best and then it did
die I want to make something of that but that
that feels so so I want to find something to
though that won’t either so I say these two lamps
together produce light that’s insufficient
this slow thick syrup won’t
be hurried some hungers pretend
they’re not the I I
don’t want now then a new bird or wildflower song
If you’ve ever looked up the name of a wildflower, or fallen asleep listing the names of the wildflowers in the park by the water, this book may be for you.
If you have look into the distance, closed one eye, opened it, closed the other, and so on, to inspect the jump of stop-motion perspectives, you may understand.
If you look kindly on squirrels and their acrobatics and wished one of them could write poetry, this is definitely for you.
Just be careful, this one has teeth.
to keep my optimism fueled for this thing. I still can’t tell if it’s working or not or if it ever will, but can you
it’s not the worst assignment you’ll get just wait until your task is repeatedly plucking the legs of various cicada from the gaps between their rotting teeth you’ll want to go back to blatantly secreting soil from the fingernails of fresh corpses before those hoards encircle the city once more fulfilling the prophecies that
really judge that standing in the middle of it? I’m still not sleeping very well. I think I might have to go back to journaling
wafted from the mouth of a lost puppet by way of the museums of mice who have feasted on the rusted flesh of a half-eaten apple in the dust of a reluctant decision gnawed on for twenty years which is whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the bland job I neither hate nor love or bow to the boughs of trees the crowded subway the bass line of a new song deified in the sun-symphony of her hair her smile but can worn images steer worse to better the cards show no numbers no suits just your reflection in the mirror across the street beyond the sparse forest with darkness closing in to sleep
before bed. I did do an extra half hour of meditation last night and I think that did help me get to sleep. But then it was so hot in the bedroom that I was sort of tossing and turning a lot. And I think M was feeling the same.
softly beneath the black warmth of the legs of your horse the river talks loudly tonight and through its nature imparts a restless feeling to those who love to be astonished so we may once again make a claim on the portion of the kingdom we believe is our birthright but the verification process is tedious and it’s more often the other way around grasp it too tightly and it shatters cuts your hand and everyone at the party looks and I bought so many things that had to be indexed labeled filed maintained to feel some emotion in regards to consumer accessories my skin was getting better but yet it was not enough I could say that my plan was not quite world domination though I knew what I would have to do but one day the mountain carked
and ran through what was left of the town the people stood by as they had for so many generations and I felt the wind on the sand on my thighs looking for an escape well I might be busy that evening but we’ll see it doesn’t sound enticing but I can’t say that to him you know how sensitive he is about these things and it’s only now that he has found the tools with which to deconstruct the various elements that form afterward instead of watching the snowball
I’m quite honored that my haiku collection, Overpacked for the Afterlife, made the short list for a Touchstone Award from The Haiku Foundation!
wanted. And I wanted all
the toys. There was always
some commercial or catalog
base of this house here you see where the original foundation was laid and this line is where builders had some kind of cozy dream 100 to 150 years later or it may have been a fire or perhaps something we have no language for or understanding of and so if you look and keep looking we can steadily unravel how the building grew from egg to newt through adolescence to senescence not of course quite the same as looking at an old tree its dependable circles always circling but perhaps like a person in that we do sometimes grab
that would feed my greed for
new garbage. And even if I had gotten
all of it, would I have felt any better? I think we
hold to the love of a season and bolt it on to ourselves hoping it might give us another internal closet a bigger bathroom a better view past those irritating neighbors from a tastefully ornate balcony but we also need to be aware of what we’re building towards and what our foundations are made of but yes maybe it would be simpler to keep the trees in mind and start the whole thing over from the roots or look at the growth of a quartz crystal if it’s a particularly dark day with some drizzle in which you want to
know the answer. And then I think,
in the past, when I’ve gotten something
I had desperately wanted the excitement
feel a bit of brightness at your core the feeling that you too could become someone on your chosen stage and when you speak people drop their phones and look in your direction maybe our example needs a quantum of precision in order to neatly fit in the hole left by the puzzle pieces whose homes we have already discovered the right void needs the right bit of the garden shed and that tiny edge of cloud that makes it pop and the deeper green of the grass in the background however we must start here in the mottled foreground
wore off quickly. So I don’t know that I can blame
my childhood. Maybe this is the way I’m built
where we stand and the simplest way to go about is sometimes all we need I think well no one likes a know-it-all and that fact has led to irreparable wounds and bruises yes all self-inflicted but what is it that you fear some unkind remark or the sound of nothing who can blame you but somehow we have to find a way to keep letting the world know that we’re here and still waiting for the secondary elaboration as promised in several recent communications so can we touch base on that first thing Monday morning please and thank you
or programmed or whatever. But no
matter what the cause, I have to face
and come to terms with it.
[And click here if you’d like to take the plunge.]
I want to take a break and I think that helps. One thing that’s been irritating me this week is a case of cracked lips.
why do you ask oh I see well yes that’s fair maybe that should be my catchphrase but in that tree no that one over there you’ll see the bird that stole a jewel from your hair you assumed you’d never see him again but that tiny hat is unmistakeable unless things have taken another strange turn in the woods I suppose nothing would be too surprising these days but you’re right we should pretend not to see him we don’t want any trouble this forenoon so here we come to the stone ruin the information plaque is badly faded
I think they got chapped or maybe sunburned? I can trace it to when we were eating outside at Valencia last weekend. I had the sun on my face for the whole meal. I don’t know if that’s what did it but that was the last time I remember not
but we can make out a date from the last century and something about a fire and a great experiment that’s mostly the story of all of our lives isn’t it if only there were something steady to stand on instead of these slimy rocks but then beneath they work day and night perfecting pestos and symphonies guarding eggs and their tender young they scatter when the rock is lifted though I know we won’t do anything quite so cruel today will we I can see that glint in your eye when you’ve had your last cup of tea and
the dog is curled up snoring beside you when the world seems a word of calm between breaths and pick up your book while we wait for the apocalypse that is taking its sweet time think of that person whose death will give you wings but if we don’t find that inspiring perhaps we can review the correct pronunciations of the latest drugs and open that box they asked us to keep safe and sealed what’s the worst that could happen of course it’s just a slight song from the dinky walnut deep inside your brain or deep inside the
forest which is the analogy we’ll use for your mind brain included at no cost though skip the extended warranty if you oh you have money to burn well burn away who am I to stop you I just feel so tired so unable to there comes a time when you think perhaps the rotten floorboards should be replaced before we lose another guest in a sudden collapse and have to clean the carpets yet again I know we should have dealt with it centuries ago but time being what it is and our hands what they are the moment
having a problem with my lips. I’ve tried to use some lip balm a few times but I don’t know how much that really helps.
[And click here if you’d like to take the plunge.]
One more thing…
If you want some tunes, or the specific tunes I was listening to while writing and editing Fragment, here’s the playlist:
or
If I’m honest I would like to see her
suffer. I won’t try to justify why
but if you had met her but never mind.
The imp inside these rust-colored caverns
whispers to the red river and dark clouds
creep behind the lens that pictures red more
red more and more laughs laughs that echo
smaller and smaller in a bare room
I’ve been cutting, editing, re-editing, cutting some more, massaging, threatening, coddling, encouraging, &c. this book I’ve been working on.
We’ve both been through a lot.
But I think we’re getting there.
Anyway, here’s a chunk of it…
we imagine our selves as rushing through though these crumbled things need their own slow time as a plant in a pot but in the forest from the slipperiest slime mold to the always hungry deer to the most sturdy studious generous genial old oak and all the families it supports the water that runs off the leaves through tiny rivulets rolling down over rocks and aerial roots to river arms and off out of our little story where I feel a need to prod and poke make my fingers dirty cutting and clipping grafting fertilizing in a place like
this self-publishing business is that you’re so alone. But I guess that’s true no matter what kind of writing or whatever you try. All the same, it is lonely and that isolation sometimes makes one doubt the whole endeavor and more. That said, I do believe in the work, though
this and for a purpose I should not speak about openly like digging up a seedling to check its progress let’s hope that the ground in me is fed well enough and that the wildflowers weeds and insects flowing up and out know to dance when the time is right for the red orange yellow paisley beach towel that’s now a blanket for the dog in bright autumn sun the breeze still with warmth rummages though the kitchen where pickles bubble to the front door where mail waits to be recycled the little table with keys dog bags and other
things to grab before one leaves next to the bench for shoes near the stairs where we hung two scrolls from Kyoto two tiny paintings from Queensland and two astronomical prints outside the bathroom which was recently redone and the tour continues upstairs but not into our bedroom where we have three walnuts carved with dozens of very small Buddhas and a somewhat dusty singing bowl the little nightstands we bought years and many apartments ago in the reclaimed furniture shop that closed down during the middle height of the pandemic did I manage to answer your question that time
sometimes I feel I’m still hammering out a voice and style. With my previous stream of consciousness prose poems, I’ve enjoyed writing them, but I’m not sure if anyone else was really interested. But I am intrigued by the possibilities of the form and sometimes it surprises me. The way
we followed him without a thought without a word despite the cold air and our unsuitably thin pants what else could we do the song he sang moved our feet swayed the trees the very stones but no that’s too much up and down and down and up through rocky mountainside the long way around skirting the boggy pond collecting the colors of leaves the tiny mushrooms on fallen trees despite the fragrant muck densely gathered on our shoes his song’s long melodies and intricate yet easy phrases remained pure in our unworthy ears as the stars swam before us
in dark before dawn just above
a little dog green yellow light
off on again in corkscrew paths
over hosta and brown lawn blink
before
these small legs running from light to
flying light in summer’s sleepy
sticky arms didn’t know why I
needed this brightness in my hand
always starting new epics but never
finishing and the work somehow better
for it. The bastard
but how do you talk to that hateful child?
He turns every knife into praise and gold
for his flaking skin
not enough is made of his resolve to
deny the diagnosis at every
opportunity.
They say that those under the southern stars
rarely fish but rely on the viscous
writhing things wrestled from clouds.
Today I’m giving away free kindle editions of my haiku collection, Overpacked for the Afterlife. This promotion is for today only, so get it while it’s hot.
Happy Holidays!
This Thursday, the 21st, I’m giving away free kindle editions of my haiku collection, Overpacked for the Afterlife.
Here’s the link in case you want to check it out. Happy Holidays!
Here’s a very happy Friday excerpt from Fragment…
would lead you to believe I do appreciate it all and other times I can manage a laugh that wiggles out from under tons of earth in which I tried to dance but perhaps soon I can emerge though the soil is cool and cruel though maybe I’ll stay here with the low rumble of worms and voles in my ears and make a home no matter what they dump on top of me or how the plates collide one day this dump could be a mountain range higher than the Himalayas with me pressed between an ancient deli meat
Here’s another section from Fragment…
and our time is up so please throw the book mark away and reabsorb the book the queue for rebriefing will be on your right and the airlock two doors down on the left and you may enter there if you have the proper stamp but no we haven’t always been so formal you know back when the place was run by the gazelles there were trees growing in all the courtyards and curious snakes and lemurs feasting on the various fruits that dropped all year round while we learned the vocabulary if not the grammar of the mighty river
A special Samhain section of Fragment…
it’s certainly not the worst assignment you’ll ever get just wait until they ask you to pluck the legs of another cicada from between their teeth you’ll want to go back to using a toothpick to dislodge the dirt from the fingernails of our fresh corpses and find a way to harness that moisture before the reluctant clouds encircle the city once more as they slowly waft from the mouth of a lost puppet by way of the mouths of several mice who had feasted on the rusted flesh of a half-eaten apple in the dust of a reluctant decision
Here’s an excerpt from my upcoming book-length prose poem travel essay surrealistic self-consuming self-creating experimental nonsense-adjacent work Fragment:
for you they reluctantly offer a handful of change and assume your bones are their bones but that time is running out or so we have foretold in our heated meetings behind the Dairy Queen scooping frozen sweetness from a disposable cup while we smirk and cheer ourselves on in plans that don’t have a Y’s chance in an X’s Z to come to anything but sometimes the planning is enough sometimes that’s where you find out who your true co-conspirators are and who the moles might be of course we’ve never actually skinned one as our newsletter heavily implies
fetid wind from the belch of the cave
dweller’s Tupperware
(First published in The Pan Haiku Review.)
The next book that I’ll be sharing with the world is called Fragment. It’s something I did for NaNoWriMo last year and have been trying to hammer into shape as a long prose poem.
Here’s the so-called advertisement that I’ve cooked up to give you a sense of the so-called book that I’m writing:
an ad for Fragment might say something like is it a travel diary dream drama recently re-earthed and translated into 500 englishish paragraphs of 100 words for a novel-related poem-adjacent self-portrait our hero of glues glues together with gold insomnia and a car alarm that produces unnameable small flowers of late early spring as it reforms itself with itself you may choose to avoid this hero’s journey of course you should refuse at least twice but in the crepuscular aching beneath the sofa who talks like this anyway or wherever you hear this please come inside it looks like cats
in what may have been a park weeds
without flowers climb white clouds cling
to the mountain an open wound
that won’t stop oozing broken mouths
growl in rusted junk chain-link yards
the town gets smaller with every
breath though they never think to bite
the hands that keep them in cages
while kids throw stones at a hornet’s
nest dream of pills and lottery
wins and the dog no longer feels
the chain that choked his younger days
and those who ran away still see
themselves mirrored in cracked black stone
Hey everybody! I am very happy to announce a collection of my haiku has just been published. I hope you enjoy it!
other animals 