November 17, 2019

Blues Rehearsal









We will not creep or sneak toward the gray today but begin immersed and only deepen from there. Slept poorly, was it the puerh? Couldn't get the disco out of my head. Outside desolate as a holiday. Gnomes frozen in mid-pout, living someone's old half-remembered dream. Am I here merely
out of habit. Arms pump the torso.




November 2, 2019

leaf saved light









drowsy dragon yawns
fallen leaves means
 
time 

to fall back




October 26, 2019

sunday staggered







faint shadows 

on vacant street
 

might deepen 

but do not
 

fall 

in flurries 

leaves 


distant blue 

hints 

of other lives...



August 23, 2019

antiquated desires rust in the heart yar






slate gray shingled beneath powder blue
smudged cloud doors sigh open spill
leather-belted exhausted 
dayglo  
construction workers
onto the side that burns she strolls
dark hearts 

shield her eyes from the glare
subtle mint tingle so barely there
car free but not care free
an e-scooter zips by.







November 5, 2017

Essay on November by Stephen Kuusisto







There is at times a small fire
In the brain, partita for violin,
Brier, black stem,
All burning in the quarter notes.
And the hedgerow
Beyond the barn
Calls its starlings in.
Then frost, sere leaves,
A swollen half-moon
Like a drowsy fingertip
Above the apple trees.






October 15, 2017

Quote by David Wojnarowicz








"If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth to this present time I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours I would."  






October 10, 2017

we must smell all the flowers





fake orange flower 
found among fallen 
leaves & broken 
glass in the space 
between parked cars, a 
chalked rainbow fades. 
young mother presents 
the fake orange flower 
to her tousle-haired 
son toddling about 
pacifier clenched in his 
mouth, swiping  
filthy ashtrays from 
black mesh tables 
the young mother lifts 
the fake orange flower 
to her nose and beckons 
her son to do the same 
on this early autumn 
morning we must smell 
all the flowers, it seems, 
even the fake ones.