Ode to Joy

Old monk on drunk walk this garden olive way of moon path nude in blue light strain powder pouring bare feet stains red muscatel. On his rock sits Jesus eyes clear tell him of your life sans joy brave Brother Anhidonus oh fun monk too but without joy. Hung over herbs your Jesus praying not…

This bud was for you

Across the street from the Estate Sale, there’s talk if it’s a teardown, while a couple of bushtits build a hanging nest in a paperbark maple, coming and going through the perfect hole at the top of the sack woven with string, spider web, tiny twigs and grassy strands yarned around. “Go easy,” she yearned….

Notes: The One They Call the Seventh Poet

They look like anyone, these poets and writers, intellectuals and artists, editors and publishers – filling and milling about the Oregon Convention Center for AWP19, sauntering though the book fair and scurrying off to panels and readings and private receptions. The fact of a book must say something about their ability to write, to argue…

a bit of lit crit

Word put upon word, drooped Robert Creeley said, or almost said. What Creeley said in his poem “The House” was: Mud put upon mud, lifted Mud is better than Word, but drooped is good.

Rubbing Amber

The new monks like moths gather to the light scree falls into the folds of their feathered skin robes amid foul screens callous bawls window shades pulled down the game glows with electric flames warm and hand wrapped wireless controllers fingers jostle the joysticks.

An Impure Primer

A beastly catechism dog eared brown cat  drenched frozen green halo. I just kwikzilver looked. Mighty nice mice nook. Opening opinion pending please query queue quorum. Run straight toward universe vast wobbly. Exit your zero.

Song at a Border Crossing

If this be your love come away with us come away. If this be your love steal away with us steal away. If this be your love come free with us come free. And if this be your fear songs smiling ear to ear songs that give no take – unhinge the gate of your…

Feast of Epiphany

Epiphany In the straw burrow farm mice. Get a little closer and you’ll see Nits in baby Jesus’s hair, lice, And a house snake in the olive tree. There’s beer on the breath of the three Sage men sitting under the olive tree, Playing games of cribbage, Ushering in a new age. The pieces are…

Drizzle Rain

A trip of plovers paused wading in the wet sand of an ebb tide each one after another across the sloping beach stopped and pecked and ran on. Up on 101 a swarm of workers on a wet sidewalk in winter huddled at the bus stop waiting and each one hopped aboard and nipped and…

Epiphanic Cat

A kin of kindly epiphany, unblinding, not whiskey aflame in your raw throat, a mud dog’s bouche to your uncupped groin, but the silent soft brush of a cat rub against your leg to say hello and please pay attention to her.