Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Cave Dweller

Blackness reflects in droplets that
fall from stalactites like uvula saliva in
                              a late-night argument

There is no plaster in this cavern -
just cold, wet rock trickling with
                               igneous sweat

Our objections built and built and
with our tongues we slapped each other
                               with the air

My hands are red with bruises and
scratches from clawing at the rocks
                               with blind possibilities

One might say this is the great temptation,
the wilderness - the reason for Cheever's thirst,
the grief of Gilgamesh, and Marilyn's overdose

I cannot see the chalkish scratches on
the rocks, but I think that someone might
come across these marks some day

Someone might come across this some day
                                    someone might decipher my language

Sunday, August 30, 2015


If you could see me there,
peripherally –
sitting at my desk daydreaming
of something outside,
either alone or with another,
dusting off ideas and words
with an archeologist’s brush,
I think you might think I’m
attentive or vigilant to what
takes place here and now:
movements, discourse

My mind is an eruption
that either spews crude content
that eventually solidifies into
utility or buries itself from eyes

I drove past the clinks and clanks
of a jackhammer the other day
while the whitish dust tickled the air
and I saw that it was concrete:
so foreign and so requisite

Wednesday, August 12, 2015


Hard times followed her like
a cape. It was nothing
in her look. It was nothing
in her words. It was something
in her walk

She had this stagger –
tripping over air as if
a stick swung from the chest
carves the breeze;
stabbing heart and
legs of scissors

I saw her walking into the store
from the parking lot, crossing
the white diagonals with her green
high heels, cutting botched emeralds
in the lines beneath

Her legs seemed to disagree
As she wobbled across,
and the greeter – having a smoke
down at the corner – had
a nonplus smile and turned back,
urgently, to the shadows

Friday, July 31, 2015


Morning fog rises
deep between oaks and
elms that solute to
the north side of the river

My mind’s heavy from
tobacco wedged between my gums
and the sleep fog that hovers
in my early-morning mind
as I stare from the bluffs

The curious sun peeks above
the rolling hills in the distance
like a child looking tip-toed
and unrelenting over a railing
at a zoo in summertime

My sunglasses paint the world
sepia and things are separated
by gradations of shades and shapes:

bronze intensities,
chestnut delineations,
foregrounds and backgrounds
that stamp impressions

cottonwood wisps float from
branches somewhere thinking
themselves raindrops

I’m sure there are sounds
out there – sounds of the woods
and sounds of organisms –
but all I hear now is breath

Soon, there will be others here –
people walking on the path behind me –
but I will choose not to notice them
as they scan their steps over rocky hills
and fatigue hugs them with paternal arms