Tuesday, May 2, 2017


Slowly, I am unbecoming.

I can read it
In old machine language,

And plain;

In wet leaves that
Shimmer on torn limbs, among
Vortex signatures that have bested
And trail.

In my teeth, I feel
Each step.

Under lamplight,
Near floods,

In old spring,

I have
Become difficult
to recall.

Still, I am lifted up
In old ways forward;

Among the
Calls of
Dreamed birds.

Saturday, April 29, 2017

NaPoWriMo 4-29-2017

In dreams of torn
Fence, fence lines,

Shovel is
Put to neck

Of stationary fronts
That snake


To this city
From an unseen Gulf,
Then suddenly east. Then
Suddenly south,

Debris signatures
Hot, still
On the radar when

Atmospheric pressure catapults
Catastrophic calm,

And the tops of trees
In their old instants
From bolt-taking panic
To sold-farm stillness.

And my compromises -
My thumb-breaking springtimes - their

Choices and wonderments

Stop mattering
In the ways we all think
Lives and moves among us.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

NaPoWriMo 4-22-2017

All those sunsets from which I stumbled.

It only took a few
Before I could read
At last
The list of my cruelties.

A few more,
And I learned to inscribe it
Along any passageway
Or path forward

It isn't a bad thing, or even sad.
Just indelible, hard.

NaPoWriMo 4-21-2017

Did you know that
Robins can dive, reckless
And deadly as any
Hawk or Peregrine?

Sit still in your own yard
Or local park long enough,
And you will find it for yourself.

All it takes is a bird, a tree and
Something wanted
On or in the earth beneath.

It's always been that simple:
Predation and desire,
Perches on the same limb.

NaPoWriMo 4-20-2017

I am not myself
I told the landscapes.
The blurring shorelines.
Still, I was. And am.
On this earth, will be.

Thursday, April 20, 2017

NaPoWriMo 4-19-2017

Without explanation,
Or reason,
The sudden silence comes.

And silence in answer.

And the silences first spill, then gather
In tired,
Empty nights
Pictures of Elohim.

Imagined, abandoned, or known,
He shadows us along the
Rivers and the four-lanes.

We are dogged, birth to death,
And drowned, one way or another,
In his pleas for our return.

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

NaPoWriMo 4-18-2017

We have only what our hands toil to give.

How hopeless is that?

Melt your raw fortitude;

Pour its trust
Into the sinewed shell
Of your will,
Your work ethic.

Good enough for you, I guess.

I won't be pulling my train over those pylons.