we live in the tongue of obscurity
and behold the rose of our meaning
with horse courage

don’t minimize the touch
of nature’s prophet and the smooth
glass river she is true to

the dove returns stunned
to the frigid ledge
and trout glide by unharmed

find your clarity in the jack-pine
and the perfect shade into which
the white tailed deer pauses

do you not believe in frost
and the cost of dreams
that conceive change?

when I look upon your stony
untroubled face I see
fire and leaves

it’s strange, no? how hearts
reckon with the mind
how far fear goes to force itself upon clarity

I pity the God who proclaims
the obvious
and passes the day on unsound streets

surprise the earth
see your way clear


What comes of rolling spume

I opened the door and
found two summers waiting for me

I opened the door and found
a shortcut, through blood,
to your vice

I opened the door and found
wingless angels
on the lawn

I opened the door and
found butterflies
flailing in hot tea

I walked outside and
mapped the flood plains
of Mexico

I walked outside
flanked by
sparrows and skunks

I drove to the
illumination of history

I drove to the oaks
of barbarism and lies

I drove over bridges
laced with snakes

I parked near
hints of reality

I parked near
a litany of losses

I walked to
plastic saints

I walked to
stony memories

I fell in
love with Beethoven

I fell in
bed with ferns

What comes of
whole creation

What comes of
lightning clouds

What comes of
wind on beaches

What comes of
rolling spume

the Cormorant

the Pelican

the driftwood

the illusion

Dear god
let’s not break
into rhyme

Dear god
I really
mean it this time

Oh fuck
now I’m
locked in

release me
from this sin


Muir Beach

ah, there it is
spring in your brother’s

You did it didn’t you?
Asian American

You did it, didn’t you?
colored lips

You did it, didn’t you?
Seattle’s shoreline

I went home
to a second heart

I went home
to a ball of lead

I went home
to horse the moment

I went home
no, I’m not going

waves of desire sang
birds tableau
lodestar lodestar lodestar

bus drivers of Tacoma
let go of their brakes
and blue eyed breasts
sank below their volleyballs

We’ve tested the wind
it’s substantial

We’ve tested the tongue
it’s indicative

We’ve tested the romaine
it’s shitty

We’ve tested the night
it’s wily
and I don’t mean Dobbs

Does anyone
have any Mozart?

Does anyone
have any shame?

Does anyone
give an impeachment?

Say what you want
Pelosi’s got game

“She’ll cut your head off and you won’t even know you’re bleeding.”

I filled the pot
with fiddlehead ferns

there was a build up
of weather on my brows

she walked through the
door unlocked
bringing with her
my night thoughts
and prayers and maps
of Roman back roads

It’s an odd person
who convicts the breath
with shadow
who sees death’s
landscape unsecreted
and can’t muster a tear

she’s water

cairn of grand assumptions

as you walked out this morning
I wondered on your smoothness
and the birds you taught to fly

books couldn’t write what
your money and musical voice

paragraphs of
feathered clauses
lifted you to
insane flight


preposterous rumors of your death
circumnavigated the world
and fell spent in
Texas bushes

when we married
the never
in that thought gap
between bridge and
Water Ouzel
we staggered

remember to pamper, preen,
and fix your collar
you said
this isn’t god damned
Yellowstone after all
you can’t get away
with that mangy bison
shit here at the dipper
bridge. we’re high fuckin’ class
or should be
you art historian

winter sits on
me lightless
while Englishmen
boil in Brexit

one night down at the
Apollo where I’ve
never been I ran
into your sculpture
or thought I did

I was, at the time
contemplating rippled clouds
over turbulent olive seas
meandering through
massive memories
of yesterday
coaxing spiders
from their dark corners

Are you proposing we
cuff ourselves
to the bed
and playfully
punish our

a boy, Sunday,
rifled through my briefcase
looking for caramels.
he found photographs
of his parents instead

on what mistake
did I leave off?
was it your family
or mine destroying
the roadside special
poem of us?

we were thinly
sliced pond ice
over Wordsworth water.

all the winter
evenings died
their dark cold

walk now through
my lover’s woods
to the still standing
cairn of grand

our bungalow darkens

A scrap of dawn light
approaches the tracks at the
speed of

Beauty strains
choice and measurement
we’re stumped
what can we say?
there is a standard
choice is real

worm rot

some pain lead
me to our introduction
what do you think of my new glasses?

what was the world like before lithium and Zoloft?
how were breasts bound up for sport
before spandex?

there was love
like a smell
of rare disease
in your

i rarely think of you
now, behind the big door
sodden with wine
working your freedom
like some version
of America the miracle


it’s a summer’s night without
I’m on the outside now
only my art works miracles

scuff bubbles
blister knobs
the promise of

did you think yourself
a thought pleasure

can i tell you
a question mark

in spirit
there was a secret
road that lead
to this paragraph

it was two feet
photographed bare
on wet rock

what friends?


When they suggested
picketing the sewer
I prayed to the
god of Mantis

He said there are
no rose gardens
or ancient maps of the world
The moon rises everywhere
and on Sunday
the blood work
will beg for flowers
and the body will rip
nourishment from
pretty bird roots
perch perch perch

Where’s your decency
your camel hair
your sheepskin?

Don’t be alarmed
all my teachers
came from North Dakota
Cuba and the long arch
of St. Louis.

it is in jeweled light that
I speak your death
not to your alarm
or amazement but
for the sake of unspeakable
odds alone


a drop of water
viewed through a
conquers all childhoods

what are the odds
the luckless girls
would drop into
unbreakable encapsulations
of sky-less stars
burning their thermo

30 years go
when i slept in the field
of quiet bees
I felt valor in the
sex of your evaluation

a fiction in your diction

a predilection in your benediction

the waves of darkness
are now assuaged
spring has disappeared
and silent soft wings pierce
the night air

our bungalow darkens

mechanics of the grand scheme

There is still life in
your gaze
clear and arranged
yet spotty with doubt
and dull music

Yes I confess
I’m Jupiter
a subsuming gravity
protecting rooftops
for dinnertime conversation

but what form is
this continent
and who altogether
killed and survived?
Was it dirty quarrelsome men?


Welcome now to the museum
of lips and kisses
the why of morning
the how of night
the substance of daybreak
the texture of dusk
rooms upon rooms to explore
may I see your tickets please?

Gas pedal

this morning
I was turning pebbles
over in my mouth
they’d click against
my teeth as I
danced slowly with
ancient annoying thoughts
involving telephone calls
and people reporting
with certainty that
John Ashbery
would be unable
to save humanity

Do you remember that certain
curve on hwy 1?
papaya and melon?
sticky beach-side conversation?
for ages we’ve had the story wrong
you said papaya, I said nothing
you said melon, I said hang on a sec
if we could just get
in the flow of that
one stable summer again


contrails are not poisoning the atmosphere
and Seinfeld was not too edgy

the endless skirmish
smothers the infant
like a Central American

I see intimate paragraphs
killing war
and love

Therefore if I should
snap the branch
landing heavy
like a raven
or braid death
in the ceremonial
night shift
please relieve me

The worst isn’t over you know
flourescent lights
still hum
in the morgue
and kitchen

winter kills purpose

bones inquire

clouds swell

there was never a chance
for place in this
ground fog and fire

nakedness is a
blind syntax
not a home

it’s nobody’s fault
it’s just the mechanics
of the grand scheme


the future floats

I dreamed a trip
to the golden currant
bush of your unending jazz
my fingers comb

the bohemian waxwings
are back
thronged in the
birth mother of
all russian olive trees

observe them for me
you know what to look for
the wind is stirring rituals

what’s your name?
why do you scent the earth with
traces of words
and assemble a bowl of thorns
in the night river?

I’m warm but I still hate you
speak up!
live your sexy miserable music
wear yourself out

a grim revolving snow cloud wanders
like death
the coachman doesn’t stop, he never stops.

cassette tape

why trap a harmless snake?

my first big dog was love,
out of control
often too much
often too little

her full unborn
blood moon body
called me

let go of your leavings
raked thick
the weather has whitened
there is an injustice everywhere present
let your garden go
to the sincere and heavenly voice of

this is the vanishing point
not a crafty painting on broadway
get a grip
self-destruction, remember, is next year.

illness and desperation crawl
through years of counting
yet I’m burgeoning
beaming myself into mindlessness

sally forth now. be on your way
I don’t have time, I’ll meet you in England
I’m not feeling violent or decomposed
I’m tightly sealed blood
in bitter skin
Los Angeles does that to you.

Jackie’s cafe’ was unsuitable
that’s all. It’s not the end of the world.

unmade bed

what history do you shock?

after the chess tournament in Kansas City
I went home to my needlework
sticky honey sweet you
thank god, were there, to assuage the
loss of my queen
effin A.D.D. oh, wait, A.D.H.D now.

I always retrieved your art
from the trash
bagged it in plastic
and secreted it
in the garage

swing and rub
the future floats
unbreakable hearts

lonely boy, you were just the old
man across the yard
a fiction
a dried out belief
a jersey acid rain
true, you had some discipline
admired by those hoisted
to view perfection
but you were, at times, milky,
imprudent, distracted,
you needed an upping to your shape up

oh well.. you are forgiven

we present you with violets
and mid-life women out of crisis
go with them, to lunar eclipses
and start preparations for April 8, 2024

Jamal can help
get him the particulars

butterflies don’t whine
about your prognosis
this is just a grey bridge
over mustard waters
it’s not your ruin
spelled out on rice paper

chop the garlic
read the dirt
go whistle with lizards

variegated geriatric birdsong

consciousness sustained through a rose
instantaneously streamlined
to the going thought of yes

I ought to write a thank you note
and slip it into the soil
under a rock
or better yet,
into a gall


Uncle Carl, why don’t you come over
for supper on Sunday and drink
our milk and eat our corn? Our
corn is your corn and so on and on
and on to the blasted O.

a sprinkle of rain
illuminated by moonlight
suffered a wetness

madonna monica grabs a towel

It’s a stretch to say I made you

the urgency to walk
and talk is pressing
as soon this body will die
not withstanding the resurrection
of Molly Ringwald and the
Fulton Street Jazz Band

the tiny ghosts of visual history
replace all corners of the moon
and in an apex of confusion
light diffuses the shadows of wind

3 A.M.

you’re so inaccessible!
all night the wheels
squeaky turned
asking for pie
you found it a disgrace
to public relations
and huddled with your masses

my mood inevitably declined

variegated geriatric birdsong

fuck you

20 years of differences
intellectual dishonesty
killing the cure
growing old
fishing marbles out your ass


MLK stands for Martin Luther King, not Milk.

I tried to bend light
through brightness of faith
but you said it wasn’t my summer
and wouldn’t be my winter

on all fours I cried
from the the small island
beach while
flotsam washed over my hands

affectations an inch thick
in cast iron

a paragraph of hope

what was or is left?

I live with ghosts in exile
eyes closed

Western Birds

choose meditation if you want
the door is open
shoulders can be rubbed
publicly by your guru

your coffin my coffin
is only empty for a spell

do you hear the marvelous
music from the forest? No?

9 years of war after 1 day
of marriage
We should have known by our
respective physiognomies

I knew myself then
dream pebbles on my tongue
prevented articulation

it was a long chapter

I’m sorry

Vietnam Vet
Skipping stone

ceaseless yawp

the flies remember

I announce all this
to the surface of memory


the endangered miscreant