Monday, November 25, 2013


I said, "I'm repeating myself."
"The devil may care," he said.
"I need institutionalized," I said.
"The devil must care," he said.

We were on a junket and
everyone was talking
about the past.
I remember all these people,
the blue turban, the lost pocket watch,
the flying cap, the forecasting.

Once I was at a horse race,
losing my ticket for that horse.

"I fired a weapon," I heard myself say.
"In someone's direction."

"We pick up the path as we go,"
said the little man sitting on the rock.
"Back is gone."

Tuesday, November 05, 2013



When I talk a block of wood
comes out of my mouth.
Something whittles it down,
something slowly rocking.
It sits now in the square
overlooking a few benches,
a gentle. quiet reminder of
what I said.


A few debate what the design says.
It speaks to some
and holds its tongue
for others.


I sit on one of the benches,
positioned to the left
of what I said.
The sun reaches down
caressing the texture of it.
Traffic slows.
"It deserves more," I think.


What I said has moved on.
Was it my comment, my reaching?
A light rain is falling on the square.
From the coffee shop where I sit
I notice the green impression
is still there.


I can't seem to remember
if I could have carried it.
I conclude it was enough
that what I said
stood alone for a while,
outside my
somewhat restless,
lighter,  blue,  self.

Friday, November 01, 2013


                                                            For Kim

I wish I had more time to know you
when we sleep.
The knowing summons me to a tryst
where no one is there.
Not you,  not me,
only the tentative cat pressure,
the deep southern groan of the dog,
the rain quietly wanting in.

As I lay there it feels like you
are the rain,  the dog,  cat.
Suddenly you release a little snore.
Like a sounding.
"Deep six" says the pole dipping deeply.
No grounding tonight,
safe passage below this tangled
supra-structure of legs akimbo,
arms hugging pudgy white flotsam.

My legs make a crossing and
we become a soft,  implicit raft,
turning,  eddying.
Direction is not in the geography
of where we are.
I let my arm slip off the side
into the cool darkness.
Water sings around my hand.
The tune is movement and
movement reaches for me
like a destination,
like home,  like knowing you.