29 May 2015


When the storm 
blew in he curled 
over his desk, 
clutched its lips, 
fiddleheaded fingers 
over and under hard lines.  The worn

range of his spine
pushed his shirt back 
into pale blue 
continental relief—
an ice age melting
in the rain.  Old, scarred winds robbed 

him of paper clips
and misguided
kindnesses from traveling 
coworkers: the smallest 
Eiffel Tower, 
a box bearing a painted toucan, a globe frozen 

in glass.  Lightning 
split the office, shook 
his grip.  Rising 
away from the future
unable to cleave—
he thought, "I should have eaten lunch."

19 May 2015

Hollywood and Western

It is wonderful. 

Early enough in the day I can say 
that the world has died.  Vacant mornings 
rest people.  

I'm not that old.  I shouldn't order 
for the world this way.  My back shouldn't seize when I set the dog food on the floor.  

I shouldn't grip the remote control, which will be gone soon.  I'm going to bury it 
beside a sidewalk palm (no one has 

a backyard anymore).  My remote my control 
deserves awareness, like 
dead phones and dead friends.

I will bury very early on a morning
with these laundry-water clouds and the ground sagging from the sky.  No hole—

the dirt will be pliant.  
I'll push the control
all the way to the deep shrinking things.

"Ha ha--in a thousand years a broken person will find it, and show a morning like this mop bucket morning."

"Next year the city will uproot the sickly palm and all remotes all controls.  They will fill 
an unsuitable land."

It is wonderful.

15 May 2015

January 21, 2014

Oooh I wasn’t talking to myself talking
                                          I was talking to the dog

Only if you can find his owner before
                                                           she gets home, she hates dogged.

Oh he likes me, he must be a male—Mind? Mine mind minimum of course
I mind, you can't keep that filthy beast in my         house.
Laughter you won’t even know
he’s here.                                  She has to say
it’s okay, too.
                                                 That seems fair.
I've had it, I've just had it.  In

the past

                                                  few days
I've been turned down for every part-time job.


It's deadly steady work, they supply the uniform, and you're married
                                                                                                               to God.  Woof.

04 May 2015

Leaving and leaving

Many textures
striate the thin place--
the last push against the chasm--
that founds contents
through division.

The divets 
between tiles
and handsome men
loosen the teeth
of handsome women.

Bone dumb music whistles 
birdsong crushed
under pretty shoes
and kneaded
pretty hands.

Flawless air un-pockets 
tacky grit, pocked 
faces, and stock feelings.
It falls through tunnels.
It touches every edge.

These enclosures
of the senses
blind shells to the 
longing of waiting walls.
With improper

intentions, rounded spirits
strike false notes.
With proper questions, 
the room would roundly wring 
out its ashes.

23 April 2015

The Conservators

We have never pressed 
against the embraces
of used arms and hands
borrowing matters
to resolve their embered grip.  We don't hold

weary evenings with knotted
sheets sidewinding,
cinching, wrung
of soothing power.  Our  
nights freely wend the void.  We carve solace

from the sporadic
eye of the comet.
We don frigid amulets 
of ancient light
and other cosmic stones.  We have resigned

from flickering comforts—
rooms within rooms, sleep 
after supper, sitting, sifting
collections on shelves.  We build an edge

abutting the meager stars—a precipice—
and our drafty watchtower
of hands scratches 
aeons between longings.
They have the house below.  We wait for the rest.

14 April 2015

Within the Light of Day

Someone is coughing
up a thread
of memory.

The poor wracking pours
out its silk from the deep of a condominium
by the train station.

Filaments waft across the numbered underground
parking spaces, 
glance off dumpsters

and sail through an iron gate 
that—when asked—
yawns and exhales us into the day.

The softly writhing recollection
halts and the moon,
hearing its name,

makes a parting turn.
The stringy rasp alters 
its airy course to no particular.

Someone is waiting 
for a memory
to die or knot.

13 April 2015


Whenever he sweeps
he finds a leaving
of an unwelcome night
that was broken before it was made.

Motes and strands
stick to the bedposts,
whispers cling to the ceiling fan,
secrets clutch the corners.

Each Sunday morning 
he takes up arms and hopes
the broom will
release him from the dust.