Friday, February 15, 2019


My mind is a tree, grown slowly
heavy with its
own maturity; its sole

and noble
purpose is—the invention of luscious
redolent fruit;

fruit so huge-
and exquisitely
pregnant with ingenious seeds—that its

only goal
could possibly be
a tree.

Thursday, February 14, 2019


Every afternoon,
after a long morning walking
around, thinking about

all the cherished people
and things I'm too afraid to allow
myself to think about now,

I walk back into this house to find
pure sound lying
all over the floor again—

radios spilling over
with their mixture of lean tunes
and marbled static,

blaring furnaces, hissing
water heaters, and sinister fridge compressors
whispering—not to mention

the incessant hollow drip-dropping
of so many ticker-tape
timers, unnerving alarms, chirpy alerts;

every day, I come home to all this
and I swear
I barely even notice it—let alone

approaching anything
differently tomorrow.

Wednesday, February 13, 2019


In the park
right now, simple
white snow

is caked up nice
and thick and capably—on a fat
spruce tree's bluish branches;

and that's about
all I know—after I
finally stand up

and look down
at the pale dead thing
splayed on the kitchen table

to consider—just what the
hell it is I
haven't been writing.

Tuesday, February 12, 2019


I know I know I know.
I know I still need those same
infantile changes—

the warm
and soft and
wet sort of premonitions—which I fear the most.

But I am not worried
I am not worried
I am not worried—I lie

all night, while I
sleep and
dream of being

again, so buoyant-
and easily—somewhere cool cool cool,

cock-crowing, off
on that pale last star glimmering
in the tender aurora of a new morning

as—the insouciant future
of this miserably
persistent family.

Monday, February 11, 2019


Annoying little
pebble in my shoe—
this too

is a kind of nirvana,
born from some
forced and self-

conscious point of view—the way
the hugeness of
what's old gets

by the new.

Friday, February 8, 2019


The story opens this way: my brain—a sleepy
old river town, inundated late last year
by weeks of cold

and sharp pointed rain—
which is still, to this day, flooded
with your memory.

The residents there have just had
to get used to the trench foot, the detours
and the closed stores

the bowed walls of yellow
tubular sandbags—the Sunday dinners
coming from tin cans.

All their backyard victory gardens
are, of course, still under there somewhere
and surely aren't ruined forever, but

nobody's holding their
breath at the moment, because—it's exhausting
enough just having to paddle

around everywhere in these makeshift vessels
on the opaque surface
of the way things were before.

Thursday, February 7, 2019


So it's dreary out
in the contorted pocket

of the pinball machine
city where you

lurk in the morning—still you can
smell it: the cigarettes

and burnt french
toast sticks—clinging to the grimy air,

wordlessly infiltrating
a dead-pigeon situation:

to careen around, lost in the
maze of creation

is never a waste of time;
it's more—lying

down and staying
put where you are

that could
really cost you bigtime.