If Less Is More

If less is more
how much more
will it take
to make nothing?

One’s self-knowledge
must be told

If less is more
brief is the life
of flatulence.

If less is more
terse the maid’s
toil at the toilet.

To say
too much
is as vulgar
as goatshit.

If less is more
how much
more or less
is nothing?

Of the sages
of long ago
the coin fits
seven no more.

If less is more
how do you know
you’ve had enough?

Everything Begins The

The ocean, the cellular, the crawling creature
the blue ball, the yellow beach, the great divide
the tree down the road in the August breeze
tall in the open sky the dry leaves olive, the

Pill, the body, the smooth quiet morning
the block, the coming and going, the type
ography, the distribution, the arrangement,
the management, the workers working the

Night, the day, the night, the day, the night
we went out walking in the moonlight the
shadows the pearly waves the rushes
brushing cat tails on our legs the

Hope, the restlessnesses, the talks
the drives, the radio, the magazines
the intervenings, the televisions
the shelves, the house, the street, the

City lights in the desert distance
below the perimeter the parameter
the fatigues, the background
the text, the mean measley mind, the

Second cup of coffee – would you
like some more, the kind and the
unkind the words blowing the gale
the strong gusts the apples falling

The squirrels, the crows, the cats
the dogs, the possums, the racoons
the weeds, the books, the bananas
the rugs, the floors, the high roofs

Still Life with Onions & Bottle

The bottle wormed open dark and furry
glass greens and purple dried oils
cork on the table crumbling aside
five onions not moving or meowing
and a peach plastered wall blistering
in light from a dirty cracked window
and the room smells of fresh onions
pungent and biting squeezing eyes
onion dry skin flaking in whispers
soft petal whites like dark moonshine
spill over the table onto the floor.

On the Patterns of Pairs

Humanism begins with making connections
which is drawing technique taught and ends
with constellations for classroom discussion
cafe conversations or solo contemplation,

technique how guitar held and strings plucked
plectrum or nails or La Pompe with tooth comb,
poetry chords of thought arpeggio aligned
necessary for navigation to & fro up & down

back & forth, pitter patter, pitter patter
this & that, that & this, pig and pepper
pants the hatter all that matters as if
as if nothing whatsoever has happened.


Put down the phone
and write us a poem
nothing to say
the cell has not.

Laptop almost
too old for this
slow prose style
inelastic cat.

The lazy morn
the otiose
slow afternoon
the heat taut night.

No notifications
come this far
from the signal
symbol sacramental.

Parts of thought
the universe yet
exploration sits

On No Progression

The plough divides
a worm multiplies
where two + two
equals five.

To see a beach
in a grain of sand,
hold time in a glass
filled clock.

The privileged are due
the poor overdrawn
the middle class

The selfie shatters
the looking glass
the valleys are empty
bathtubs slowly refilling.

Politics is a rich ugly
old man’s courting
the priests and the

Put out dearth stats
in a year of death
wear a mask
and walk asunder.

Walk in the morning
nap at noon
fast in the evening
lap the night long moon.

Culture cars cruise
the city strips
radios talk blaring
the end of days.

The wise avoid likes
links and comments
while fools post poems
almost daily.

The fool prepares
to like a scholar
a celebrity hires

Devils eschew
angels desire
melting ice
feeds the fires.

Who teaches the tree
to drink the child
to nurse the old
to appear free and easy.

Too Late Too Little But For A Banana

too late
(bugged & rugged)
& too little
to compose.

Moon long gone
its ring through
(fully foolish too)
the open window
I let it go.

I don’t have to be
anywhere but here
(not new and worn)
so to thee my love
on the icebox door

this note:
“Awoke & forgot
litter box, but
poppy seed cakes
& coffee

your awakening.
I’m on the porch
writing with a banana
so soft & mushy.”

The Uncomfortable Rose of Refugio

We were kids from the city hunting snipes.
We didn’t know a rose from a hedgehog.
It was night and dark green swells
broke into laughing curling soup.
The tide was in but we had climbed
over the rocks and around
the Point and couldn’t get back.
We came to a cave in the cliffs
where we waited for the rose
to bloom like the moon out
over the cove, light spreading
across the ocean near and far.

Our rose was not sick, like Blake’s.
It wasn’t full of worms or covered
with aphids. Through the hot
summers and cold winters
its mild scent filled the cave.

At night we first felt then heard
the train coming and by the time
it crossed the trestle the whole
campground was awake waiting
for the shaking ground wave
to pass through.

Tent flies opened and a few folks
went out walking in the night.
The night did not howl.
The rose’s name was not
Germaine. Her bed was blue
not red, unkempt and unread,
saltish, seaweedy. We peeled
back the pearl petals and spent
the night on the sandy bed
in the cave as the tide ebbed
and even the waves fell asleep
in the uncomfortable silence.

Not All Blues

Not all blues radical newfangled
greens in blues blues in greens
so what asphalt actually mostly
walking away sweet summertime
steps not very early carnival birds
sing to farther extant songperch
over lands & seas sands & trees
trills of trains fading away full
dress function over sidewalks
across intersections red gold
solos muted with olive tents
“Ineluctable modality of…”
commodities blues and greens
all that is seen right under
one’s nose walking to & fro
stopping in 16 blues bars.

Beckett Beatitudes

Happy are those who have seen Godot
for theirs is the kingdom of the circus.

Beat are the Monks whose clapping
hands lack priggish-holy rhythm.

Privileged are those who ask
and can’t get no answer.

Rich are the old who hear
sweet silence coming near.

Beati are the ugly the down
and out whose beauty stuns.

Blessed are the homeless
their room in heaven made.

Happy the captured silent
who wear pork pie hats.

Blessed are the busted
whose crime is alive.

Rich are the poor so
free from distraction.

Lucky are the fall guys
the players in the play of the play.

Canonized are the sinners
free from all rules.

Wealthy are the workers
whose tools are not words.

Blessed are those who fail
for they have their degree.

Happy the ignored their
ignorance unsurpassed.

Abite the teachers who tried
and failed to teach nothing.

Blessed are those damned
to fame and taken amiss.