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