Friday, May 17, 2019


The clouds have been torn from a notebook.

The clouds are pages torn from a notebook.

The clouds: pages torn from a notebook.

Saturday, May 4, 2019

Cooking Pot

After the war
they sold their uniforms.
They hid their rifles
in the back of the wood shed.
They turned their helmets upside down,
washed off any blood,
scraped out stray hairs,
bits of flesh and brains,
and filled them with boiling water
for fifteen minutes.
When they were done
the priest said a prayer
and they started peeling
onions and potatoes
for dinner.

Monday, April 29, 2019


Is there still a tree in you,
anonymous white rectangle?
Were you once brown
with roots and leaves
and ants and squirrels
living inside you?
Hard to believe.

Hard to believe
anyone lives inside you now
unless I draw them:
poor imitations of a life
once lived in a field perhaps,
or in the front yard
of a small white house
surrounded by a picket fence
also constructed
from the shattered remains
of your ancestors.

Thursday, February 21, 2019

About your Amaryllis... (found poem)

When you follow these easy instructions
your amaryllis will bloom
in approximately four to eight weeks.
Living things have their own timetable.

Everything is included. Prepare
as per the instructions.
Stir, aerate and if necessary, drain.
Keep moist, but not wet.

Once the flowers open, move.
At the end of September,
remove the foliage.
In December, replant.

Your amaryllis will flower again.

Friday, February 8, 2019

Sharp Pointy Thing

Sharp pointy thing
meets skin and skin
gives way. Bone says
Ow! and blood
makes a mess everywhere.
Nothing serious
but we should learn
to be more careful.
Don't run. Don't carry
whatever. My body is
getting used to the noise
it makes, like a fire alarm
invented by a two-year old
which is how I behave
in my lesser moments. Alone,
hurting from whatever
physical or imagined
slight. I will be better
or at least not so loud.

Sunday, January 13, 2019


If the roof leaks, fix it.
If the barn burns, save the animals.
If the crops fail, pray to the gods.

If the roof leaks again, pray to the gods.
If the barn burns, curse the gods.
If the crops fail, forsake the gods.

If the roof leaks a third time, curse the gods.
If the barn burns, forsake the gods.
If the crops fail, realize you are the gods

you thought had abandoned you.

Sunday, October 28, 2018

Flappy Bird

it moves
up & down.

Its only
to avoid

the very real

to get
in its way.
The fundamental

human dilemma
of desire
vs. reality

in eighty-nine seconds
(give or take)

before starting over
right where you

Illustré (awl)

The most primitive tool on earth: a stick
sharpened at one end, blunt at the other.
To be struck by a hammer, the second
most primitive tool. Someone added a handle
and someone else forged it from steel
and bent the tip slightly
to reach those out of the way spots
the original neanderthal
had not considered. Evolving
into today's model: sleek, efficient
and barely recognizable
from its progenitors, the stick
and the hand from which it came.

Tuesday, October 2, 2018

The Reading

There are dark spots on the map.
You don't have to stare at them.
You don't have to steer
into oncoming traffic
or towards the bridge abuttment.
Avoid the one last elm tree
next to the deserted road.
Don't drive so fast
into the curve you know
is dangerous. No.
Go to the mall. Somewhere
colorful, crowded, and well-lit.
Read a favorite book.
Listen to a record you keep
for just such occasions as this.
Sit quietly in your house
with all the lights on,
hoping no one finds you.
Hoping someone,

Saturday, July 21, 2018

Daylight Psychodelica

I am covered in stars.
Speak to me.

The sun is at 80%.
Leaf foil. Spider thread.

Dusk is a verb
rapidly approaching.

The shadow dance of the trees
has been going on
for thousands of years.

They have more hands
than we have hearts.

I see it now: they are waving
goodbye, as if

this is a party
and we are the last to leave.