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Saturday, May 22, 2010

Some poems published in Medusa's Kitchen back in April. hope you like them


Came out last night.

It was snowing on the moon.

Pretty hard too.

Gusting about

like a room full of laundry

looks when you’ve lost something

in it.

Down here, I’m drinking splits,

looking at the road map.

Everything here is relative.

The moonlight on the beer foam,

bubbles rising like the stars.

The storms ease on the moon.

I ease out the back door

to look at the night again. Huge

drifts of snow slide through

the sky. I am amazed by

the intensity of the storm.

The moon moves across the back

of a fog bank.

Fingers of wind make noises,

almost music, across the tops

of the beer bottles.



in my throat that sounded

so unlike anything I knew

that I would scare myself.

I became ceremony in sound.

A whirl of phlegm, crackling

and sputtering up from the

rooms I guard against time

and her dancing princesses.

A quaking, as if a bear suddenly

came into the room on hind

legs and performed the crushing

of an arm as if it were a

dance and she the music.

Now, autumn pushes clouds

ahead of itself with a yard

full of leaves, I hear these

same sounds again issue

from their scraping across

the drive and think them

a familiar music, something

treasured, like a Nocturne by

Chopin remembered by the fingers

long after the mind has forgotten

the specificity of the notes and rests.

It is a rustling of lace

in a room draped with silences.



It bothers me

that the night

is outside minding its own

business while I am

in my room half

expecting you to appear

in the bed next to me.

You, with your brow arched,

surprised to have been

shipped across the night

like so much luggage;

the white roses of sleep

still in your skin.

I would be as surprised.

Hello? It would be like

saying hello to

myself on this late August

night, where the voices

of dogs are so small

in the distance, that my breath

seems huge. no, hellos

would never do.

The dark just outside the

window waits for me to put

the lights out. It has ways

of getting to me, of opening

the dreams like oranges

and spilling these thoughts

of you all around me,

before I can catch a glimpse

of you shuttling across the

night air, not alarmed

at all by this thinking

it is just the changing

of the season that causes

these things. not alarmed

by the love of it. not at all.

Knowing you will wake up

far away from this room,

the night being busy

with so much else. with

traffic and dogs and things

of its fabric as to

make such journeys a

matter of reaching to the end

of the bed and pulling

another blanket up above

your shoulders.


Friday, May 21, 2010

the photos and poems are mine. Hope you like them. Medusa's Kitchen published them in early April


Really now, it had nowhere to go

Except toward Summer. Wasn’t

that a given? Wasn’t Spring given

Specific instructions about the dawn,

The new leaves, those choruses of frogs?

Still there it is sulking in the first

Week of April like a schoolgirl

Upset over something she can’t have

But doesn’t really want anyway.

High in the Sierra a late season

Snowstorm has turned the world white

Again. There are no flowers, no buds,

No rivulets babbling and gurgling.

There is so much snow the dawn seems

Late, There is a smile on the lips

Of Spring, if only for a day or too.

Perhaps that will be enough.

We will go to the market and buy

Vegetable seeds , try to recall the

Heat after Easter creeping back, getting stronger.


We’ve had some of them stored for years in that wooden pantry just below the cellar stair, where mom kept the plums and tomatoes and pickles. They were the words. The special ones we didn’t use everyday. When guests came we would open some and they would spark conversation. After dinner with a slice of pie and slice of cheese those deeper ones that stuck to the sides of the jars would be scraped carefully and served up. The ones that mattered, like blood and its engines, famine and tumult. They are gone now. So much time has passed since childhood that even the pantry is difficult to remember, let alone those words. Still they pulse through our bodies. Unlike cells they are not replaced every seven years by a new one. We hold them in our hearts and mouths and call to one another across time as if it were a fence between yards.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Here's one from this morning and some photos I liked, none of them mine.


It’s always the wonder, the mist

Above to morning river, the shimmering

Horses seen through Summer heat on the desert,

The changing of the seasons with their gifts,

The way dreams crowd themselves in our waking.

Waiting along the sides of the road we see

Butterflies of a most remarkable color rise

From a single bush full of the jewels wisdom

Creates when it walks among us with a human

Voice and there, such a lovely woman waves

Toward our rag tag bunch of wanderers and

Calls to us to come for lunch, right about now.

Brooms that stand straight up, almost a forest,

They nod their corn straw heads. A waterfall

Grows from the heart of the forest planting

Rainbows on your skin. We turn colors,

Surprising one another constantly.

I guess I must have looked surprised when

I got here. I didn’t expect it would be like this. It’s

Always wonder that carries the meanings in its

Coat pockets, talks across the whole country,

Allows us to return time and time again to continue

Through tears and heartbreak, murder and confusion.

I’m all for it, will get up and walk right up to it.

I’ll take all you’ve got, angels in the windows laughing.