Pageviews past week

Sunday, September 26, 2010

four of my poems and one of my photographs from Bolinas, CA


The pink reminders of the evening
Have gathered themselves into the corners
Where the light has its own agenda.

The cornfields in their ranks and files
Start their parades delving into the mysteries
As they spiral upwards into fractals
Worshipped like the poor will objects able
To be possessed. We skate among them

Challenged by our wrong intentions, crashed
Into by dreams and ransacked by the arrogance
The mind handles to confuse us with lucid
Moments that defy time, leaving us on
The edge of our beds at three or four
A.M. trembling and unable to put the body
To rest again so that we may mount
The pastel boats of the nights flickering
Ships and use them as the vehicles
We need to consume the far shore
And ride home again, more or less
Complete upon waking and filled
With tales the night has told morning
Even as it steals from its bower fading
As it does so, convincing in its
Description of foolish wisdom.


When I last spoke to those
Luminous beings who seem to dwell
In the highest places of amusement
Parks where the thrills are,
They told me that they haven’t even heard
From you for so long they almost
Forgot you had anything important
To say. Please contact them now

Before this evening. They will be
Waiting. They know the prayers well.
They will bless you personally.
I will be waiting with them. You will
Recognize me by my smile and the fact
I know your name well enough to

Find your etymology in the trees
That once grew near the coast in
Northern California. I understand
You may be very endangered at
This time. Good luck.



(for E.R. Baxter)

The altitudes have gone past tension.
We are required to know just how
High we are, what names the dead
Animals by the side of the road
May be identified by, what has happened
To the amphibians that the Spring
Isn’t as full; the vernal pools
With their pale eyes reflecting
The cool morning, the wakening
Rustle of the season, all green and up.

So we stand and watch the buzzards
Ride the thermals, circling round
And round and we learn to listen
To our breathing as we do so.

We can meet here as often as we are able
But let us speak to one another
About these changes, remind one another
Just how temporary it all is.
Or, if I am unable to see you here again,
I’ll be sure to text you, maybe that
Will be our attempt at presence
As Spring replies with confounding necessities.



In the morning, very rarely, you hear them singing.
The ephemeral is considered luxurious,
Something they do not have to remember,
To reflect upon as one would fantasy,
Without perspective or much interior,
Shallow as mirrors are shallow
But seemingly deep simultaneously.

Misunderstandings are the coin of the realm.
They allow images for only a moment
When an ejaculation may demand its own
Punctuation to show propriety,
Their need of full citizenship
In a society unblessed by complete

We may wander up and down
The streets tempting them to knowledge
Of common things like music made
With the voice alone, or the shaping of glass
Using long, thin tools to play the fire.
There is little interest in these things.

Everything must be prepared well beforehand.
Nothing must be out of place.
Where love
Enters is difficult to determine,
A back door, left carelessly unlocked
So one might enter in the middle of the night
Undetected and find a bed with another,
Hoping for a morning that is full of rain
Or fog or other weather that confuses
The senses making everything harder to see.