August 18, 2017

Forlorn figure

Walking across the river, to a job 
that would soon evict me 
like an unruly tenant. I noticed 
a forlorn figure, sleeping in the dirt 
where grass had once been. 
I am lonely 
but not nearly that alone.

August 12, 2017

[I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson] by Wilfred Owen

[I saw his round mouth's crimson deepen as it fell],
Like a Sun, in his last deep hour;
Watched the magnificent recession of farewell,
Clouding, half gleam, half glower,
And a last splendour burn the heavens of his cheek.
And in his eyes
The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak,
In different skies.

August 9, 2017

It sounded as if the streets were running Emily Dickinson

IT sounded as if the streets were running,
And then the streets stood still.
Eclipse was all we could see at the window,
And awe was all we could feel.
By and by the boldest stole out of his covert,        
To see if time was there.
Nature was in her beryl apron,
Mixing fresher air.

August 8, 2017

Poem Written at Willow Lake by Yuan Hongdao, Translated by Jonathan Chaves

At sunset, I lie down for a nap...
the mountains seem to tumble onto my pillow.
Green mosses are reflected in the water;
winds from the rice fields blow through the window.
I enjoy myself here, 
        arranging rocks and flowers
                in the garden,
writing out spells to keep away crows and bugs.
My drinking companions 
        are mostly Buddhist monks:
                even when we're drunk, 
                        we talk about the void. 

August 6, 2017

of light and near darkness

Raw Deal City that Never Sleeps
Touch of Evil Scarlet Street
Detour Tomorrow is Another
Day The Prowler
Gun Crazy Act of Violence Odds
Against Tomorrow
The Killing They Live By
Night Thieves’ Highway Sweet
Smell of Success The Killers
Moonrise Out of the Past
and the City Nightmare
Alley The Maltese
Falcon Double
Indemnity The Asphalt
Jungle Sunset
Boulevard Criss
Cross In a Lonely
In a Lonely

In a Lonely Place

August 4, 2017

Hungry like the Wolff

There was a picture called Murmurations. I remember a series of windows in a barn like room forming a cross. The windows revealed leaves in a dense wood of trees, waving closer. There was a woman inside, beside the cross, which was several feet taller, the woman inside had wild hair, the woman inside was wearing white, the woman inside looked like she might know a spell, the woman inside was shaking, the woman inside was dancing, she was dancing, she was dancing.

February 8, 2017


straight long blonde hair splashes her camel hair coat. turquoise box of american spirits rest on the black mesh metal table. lime green lighter. lit cigarette smolders on the mesh despite the cold dark claw across the table. mud colored nail polish bottle. long, long black lashes fan creamy vanilla cheeks. a pink hand clasps a porcelain mug half-full with heavily creamed coffee. 

it is difficult to tell how much it is raining from behind the dripping awning. 

lichen sweatered young sidewalk trees lean toward street. one fake crimson flower still trembles above the gutter, twinkles with its rivulet. her friend sits down to smoke behind dark purple shades. the camel hair coated woman raises her cold pink hands, showing off the nails.