February 14, 2018



I loved   just under my breath

Just above the collar-

Toward the back of her moon-colored sundress.

Hold on  to my breath

Hold,   & I holy hope

Right forthright for our portal opening

& if we’d once/ Go take this chance

This  achy  slow  dance is done today

This must  go & leave  t’heaven

Just one heave away



February 14, 2018



This  one  liaison

We’ll go so  for foreign films

Our unbridled pillow talk there,

On chiseled crystal chaise lounge chairs,

Will be subtitled.


We’d meet.

One moon  might

Lighten  one  clutch,

Tonight  once closed curtains

Might   much/open/legged  open  one

We’d mean

To go  so far as to

Show our gods of love  lots of what they’d bet on,

Completedly   W/some things  &

Unneededly  subtitlings.






January 2, 2018



“Way over yonder in a minor key, Ain’t nobody that can sing like me”  -Woody Guthrie




.I said  I’d sing

For you  some morning

Well We’ll wait  when we’re nearer

Near  closer your ear

I’ll sing out  without warning

It’ll be a bit absurd

I’ll hack into  newest birdsong

I will await  re-entry  then

I  pipe  up  then

(you can see his breath as he greets dawn)

Sheets down


.”The cold front couldn’t stay out front still/

I guess you can rescue

Family plants  being killed,/

Button top buttons!,

And cheat out the chill”

My Lofty Thoughts

November 24, 2017

It’s not been my story   to take inventory/

It’s  I can’t even fake  the worry

About what I have, What would I want/

I suppose  I could pose  but I can’t/

It’s  said/

An  unexamined  life

Is  good  as  dead/

I said/

It’s  a body afloat, & its solid thoughts  float too, y’know/

& My Lofty thoughts  not  caught  oughta ride

On all tides too  High and low





.                                                                        (from way back)


November 6, 2017




There’s often been  unfocused fire

Before the rhododendron,



Like off a roadway, on a hot day,

Sure,  unfocused  fire

Blurring this entire English garden.

Bumble birds and humming bees,

Warm words tumbling, tumbling on great grass.

Late last night it wouldn’t cease;

The dream is in the English sun.

I took cream in my steaming , strong tea.

Virginia, Leonard Woolf  I could see

With her lot

Iris Murdoch & John I could see

With her lot

Barrie and Carroll

Knelt on all fours

For hours

Playful,  cerebral  somehow.

I’m thinking,  As I burrow my brow

Rough for this pillow

I’ll settle, Right now, Near the shade of that willow

& succumb  to cats on a lawn

& three  secret facts of tea roses.




.                                (from 2009)

photo mine


August 18, 2017




It might have been one long neon light

In the laundromat that set her off

When it flickered & popped

At us/ All of us up late

Our eyes were hypnotized some

All bets were off

On what might happen

She was the first to go

To distract us from our books & hand-machines,

Pull us from our puzzles, also  our magazines

Her  saying all that nonsense  fouled by fire

Interrupted  that late night scene

Her  calling  names  out

All intense,  Her pleas

We stared some  & stuck out that someone’d stop her

Her call to fallen reveries

Her  own  effin reveries






May 8, 2017

I’m  ripe  with  dereliction

My repast  still  strewn out before me

I’ll lap seeds from fruit eden fronts me

Though I’ll stick slow to my sloth….

To my depiction



May 1, 2017







There ought better be a beacon
on a pacific coast cliff could be
where hope’s light works with sea horn
where a night light works without warning
It forces & forges  the blackest  fog & forests
There can be a candle
in a window with enough heat
to fire the hearth
to light one lone solitary stone room
(from 2010)
.”Writing is nothing more than a guided dream” -Jorge Luis Borges



April 27, 2017


” Had Richardson sat in the piercing shade…”

You’ll say,  “In lieu of  with us   in the

Cruel, as a rule, sun on us.

He’d, it’d suffice to say,  suffer less,   unless

It’d be meaningful to a man like him to  show.”

I’ll  go,  “Sure enough, he’ll tough it home to suffer,  tho’

I think that ,yes, later at  blackest ink late,

He’ll love chopping onions, through all of their skins,

To sweeten his red sauce.  String section perfecting chaos as its tuning just begins.

One escape, esconsed in wet white cotton drapings,

Kind  chimey  showers

Keep rhythms  in Richardson’s shapings.

They  can   steepen,   that man’s dreams’  healing powers.”



If I’d insist on playing the pacifist

(I’m maybe miscast)

I’d resist being all-too-willing

to killing time.

If I would want to resist the persistent praying

For my mercy, for all our mercy,

Inarticulate verses of mercy,

Maybe I’d want to take steps,

I’d want to take things into my own hands,

Maybe I’d want to take on the task

Of yanking my mask off,

Of thinking of thanking

myself more.

Tho’  I’d  heed  less