Thursday, June 30, 2016

Canvas 710

(click to enlarge)

Canvas 710

June 30, 2016

bare legs under tables

bare legs under tables, rows of calves and thighs and knees,
and here, in your garden, bees ’bout the flowers ’neath the trees,
how they part to please into a deep hum, and what a child sees.

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

This time of year

This time of year, the clover in the lawn is the lawn. But there is grass too, prairies upon prairies, bees down bullet holes, wagon tracks, and noonday graveyards. The sun? Well, that might as well be peach juice running down your arm. Or maybe a lemon drop held to the roof of your mouth by your tongue. Hidden from the street by a song, I overheard a little boy tell a little girl what kisses are. Or maybe she told him. “Show me,” both of them said. Yesterday I wrote a poem that began, “crow on a limb.” Now, suppose I told you crow is a verb. What then? Is there any type bolder, than the type you have been? “Show me,” both of them said. “Here comes the wind.”

Monday, June 27, 2016

bold type

crow on a limb, stroke of a pen,
now is the how that scatters all when

Friday, June 24, 2016

Canvas 707

Canvas 707

June 24, 2016

you know what it is

once you imagine yourself a raindrop
on a true love’s naked skin,

you know what it is to be an ocean,
kissed by sweet salt wind.

Thursday, June 9, 2016


My eight-year-old computer is failing and I will be replacing it next week. It bubbles, it wheezes, it hesitates, it stalls. It is outdated. It is no longer supported, except by my desk. When I click on the link that leads to your page, it takes me to an earlier time when shovels ruled and the snows were undefiled on solemn slopes. Is that you I see waving in the distance? How silly I must appear, a twisted, bearded elf pulling the stops, firing toy cannons. What you say I can’t hear, what you show me I can’t see, what you mean I can’t fathom. The new computer, meanwhile, will be wonderful. It will be a pristine notebook I am afraid to write in. I will stare at it for hours, then I will go and wash my hands. O Profundity! Omar Serif of the Sans! Oh, how I love thee, my Friend! Forgive me, remember me, ’til then!

Thursday, June 2, 2016

Canvas 700

Canvas 700

June 2, 2016

My vision

This blur we bravely call our vision, and love so well in each nigh-blind revision, as if by our decision we deny and justify division — is it not high time we agree, the art of being me lies closer to derision, with human-kind provision, brought on by sweet collision, than ultimate precision?