Archive | December 2012

Pavement Scribbles

I turn to the road
for the proper arrangement
of this internal landscape.
Mile markers
stamp my unending letter —
grammar of gray pavement,
of birds and wires,
striations of sky
stain the blank page.

And love without limit
requires no return.
What better end
than to entertain,
entice and entrance,
just as you’ve done,
with no knowledge
of the doing.
This dream of describing
for unseeing eyes
makes it magic,
no matter the season.

Watch for backroads
where all was bared
too soon,
and the windmills
turning in and out of unison,
the neverending cornfields
where I sang
while I worked,
the devolution of old barns,
and 13 watchful hawks.

Upon all of it,
all of us,
the illusory progress
of time —
headlights and taillights
headlights and taillights
and sunlight
on orange flags.

And they always told me,
you need to find a
to address.
And I’m still not sure
how you ascended
to such a role —
mutual love of words
and the unraveling of roads,
but so it is.
So I sign my name,
and quiet the engine,



The swings look lonely
in the snow.
Sewing up toes —
200 miles
and it’s so hard on my mind
I can smell the smoke
from the stove.

Hauntings arrive
unlooked for —
here where shared blood
runs quiet.
And these
and historic occupations —
busy hands against the devil —
so serious,
so studied —
free me
from a need for mercy.

But a restless eye
still seeks these
points for pause —
lit silver by moonsnow,
swings beg a release
from an inertia
that chains us all —
a dervish
or a summer’s  breath.
And woodsmoke curls
heavy on a suspended
black sky backdrop —
someday one of us
must relent.

His Ophelia

Stumbling again —
eyes half open,
roots bound
in an overhand knot —
does she feel
all the indictment
of his sharpened nails?

She cannot light
a match —
or give letters
to fire.
And her words
hold no currency
with them.

Walking on water,
by the river garden —
her hands are suspended —
to actions

And the erosion
of her golden bones
catches us all
off guard.
We nurtured
her visions,
savored her illusions.

We kiss the dirt,
and her fingers
seek the comfort
of keys,
as she follows
the singing
of lost objects.

And she might suffer
them to pass.
But who would be
so heartless —
as to knock on
or knock down
her delicate door?


The worm’s
Wound tight
In living flesh.

They build
An angry fire —

Unseasonable —

And stark branches
To uphold something,

But the nearsighted,
The somnambulant,
Can’t see.

And the other,
And the other,
And the other —

That splinter their knuckles
At the door.

And I don’t know
What it is.

We live in
This house of cards —

A roiling of the gut,
Words that slip the divide,
And the paralysis of our biology.

Someone needs
To turn down the heat.


Sometimes it is fiction.
These stories live
the forbidden life.

And vicarious,
I watch from a trembling perch.
Follow clock and calendar guides.

We sink our hands.
We sink our lips.
We sink our eyes —

Threaten eviction,
then worry that
on waking
they’ll have vacated
the premises.

Every dawn,
a new judgement day —
And no matter what
crimes and sins
they have collected,
the breaking light
reveals innocent,
beautiful eyes.

And again,
I gather them close.
And their grip on me
only grows tighter.


In the high room
you speak of pulleys.
I mention phobias
and the scent
of electrical fire.

A ticktock tango
our rhythm.
Rain taps a dull
shingle cadence.

This laughter
feels inappropriate,
which is maybe why
we can’t stop.

13 steps,


To settle and stay settled is the thing
You must achieve, but the dark makes it hard
To escape from labyrinthine, questioning
Doubts as to whether this living’s not marred
By words spoken in some lost long ago.
Hints of dreams in mad pursuit leave you blind —
Digging to unearth cold clues from below
To placate and calm dissatisfied mind.
Rely on what’s passed to make self present
While some future reckoning still beckons
And rolling onward, captures resentment
Of what can’t be reached below life’s breakings.
Still, you must settle, then cast on ahead
In dreams, in waking, ere joining the dead.