studying his
face,       luckiest
man on earth:

jokes about y2k,
and getting      old.
      new  normal:
bandaged
  stab wounds
and Abilify in
little      paper     cups.

leaning back in
my chair,
        reading the ceiling,
conjuring
the saint of
    shoddy aim,
misfires, doubt,
humor-

however slight
            in  our      distances.

secondary (gleam white bright)-
op ed: the wet fields are yellow
and shouldn’t be. bless the anxious
farmers
                who wait.

the most luminous on the spectrum
egg yolk, ripe lemons,
objective.  turn the screen
of the mind. IKEA, bookshelf,
adjustable shelves,
a bird of open deciduous edges
and forests  (Yellow-Throated Vireo).

             we solve the yellow
             on top of the Rubik's cube
             in two steps:


              orient and cross, coward-
              look at the stars.

i am a poet learning to be a poet; this could get complicated.
feel like I'm in a weird dream, memory triggering, lightning bugs!

sometimes after a long day I step out of the shower and sit dripping,
looking at myself in the mirror, cloud formation erotica, open lines:
it's quintessential me through a bizarre looking glass; apparently
there is such a thing as self-compassion.

i've had a thing for owls lately, must be the millennial ennui.

teach me to whistle -
i just like the way it sounds

rectilinear, oracle, eschew
today's words
apparently eschew and a sneeze are
interchangeable, phonetically speaking.

have you been holding out on me?
i'm all for said sensual urges and
wild manic destroying of the yurt, but please-

rest of us just gotta be sensible.

untenable time cuts
against the oxbow

reading policy to an
era of locusts

mountains without
insides, simulacra optic

encoded social rent
cultish borders, conditions

dubious grain, bleached
establishments buckling

plow is to story
the regressive pixel

atmosphere circling poles
centuries undulating

-

entropy the way, ersatz
a litany for kindling

burn the canvas hour
my morning masterpiece

laddered interior young
at the stem. axing archetypes,
archaic impulses needling,
tracing a thin history.

versed in red cedar,
conversation inherited from
compulsive dreams,
spontaneous ******,
           absurd.

air thick through
hemlock mind, beliefs
losing acreage
to wildfire,            
                     practice.

feet like temples,
         side stepping,
environment a dip of
images patterned,
falling to edges,

       mountains
       widening,

        basic matter.

the speaker is a daisy
born from space,
thinking about pressure
        deliberately,
spheres of influence.

lone digger,
                 lazerhawk
formed by observations
     and heaps, piles-
rounded towers
accumulating.

intoxicated with the
liquors of nature-
unstable in self-

                    who can sail without wind
                         who can sail without wind

i broke up with someone once
and he immediately joined the army,

me or war!

all I do these days is watch the sky.

-

attempted to view
my first vortex this
afternoon but there
was no parking.

                  is this a lesson in
                  trying to eat seasonally?

i’m not
   singing
If I Had a Hammer
     until all
beings
are freed
     from
suffering.

       didn’t
   shoot
myself
           in
         the
       foot
     today,
        surprised?
      
not
        saying  I'm  deep,
                 but  this wind
                        is a    challenge
     

                            to a fly
                             
                                                          line.

in memoriam rhymes
with crematorium.
when I die I want to be
chemtrailed over my
favorite city.

what if I want to be co-opted?
i'm a less is more person,
but that’s all a ways off...

days ****** calamity,
jaw sticking out, riding
for his life alone. unrealized
heart mangled, beats
like sounds raged. came
as bark, then water,

in bars travelled-
emptied kings wrapped
a thousand bulging angers,
evil men, crate men rattling
cold drinking the mug
like an artery draining.

Silvanus in swamp fog
tongue, collar
              pressed to creatures
looking born, crossing sense,
damning the judges, panting-

        reinventing an unkempt time

        and our man snuffing
                               the last match to see by.

it’s not so much about
the mountains,
but the way they cut
     the sky, assuming space
     inch by inch.
kind of rude, really.

either way these aren’t
my mountains
and those aren’t my dairy
calves, huddled around
the lapis-filled oxbow for
midday siesta.

-

lately my hair tangles
in the wind,
not complaining.

grasping a shirtfull of stones
        lake bluer than the sky- such a thing
lapping salty, barely covering my feet
                                              cold but then

a part in the glass, far out
    gliding this way- slick like soaked

fur. squinting, harder/tigher now
    
                   letting loose and dropping
            my shirt, my dazzling catch
                       palms binoculars

what’s this? so I sit and wait
       forming prints in the wet
     with feet, hands- too ordinary.

impossibly, my mirage creature
          approaches, eyes locked
       on me and paws out of the

bluer than sky, circles the ground
       next to me and settles
               glossy beast.

non-confrontational by nature,
    i introduce myself
       and nothing.

       then, what’s this?

and with that my visitor rises and
  pounces on the wet earth,

two prints that he quickly
    licks clean, erasure

then mine. the sound of
                rocks cracking.

what’s this?  no sooner arrived
than split, towards the sagey hills

-

margins as     thin
as air.  gyrations of
spirit,

     flight resurrecting.

- - -

cerulean feathers
strewn     underfoot

dazzling the      way

home.

to not dawdling in the sump of your foibles-
Russia, France, shadowboxing,
dry cash and sock money.
i told him enough with the squats already!

refused to gobble over the intercom after selling an organic turkey,
imagine I get fired for refusing to gobble.

moved to Alaska and became a scenery ******.
aside from synonyms, I’m okay.

Half our bodies oxygen,
      by mass.
Transfermium Wars-  who knew?
      elemental naming controversy,
      my new favorite war.
Americium-241 in your smoke detector,
     alpha emitter, ionizing ****.
Dual atomic clocks- Ytterbium lattice-
     understanding would taint this fun.
     (Apparently there is a Time and Frequency
     Division somewhere).
Solid to vapor- if only we sublimed
     our way home, though maybe better
     suited for air signs. An earth sign, myself,
     sticking to terra dirtus.
2, 8, 20, 28, 50, 82, 126- the Magic
     Numbers in physics- full nuclei,
     like full bellies- maybe our magic years too...
     'cept for 126- unless you're a Galapagos tortoise.
Manganese blackening bulls in Lascaux.
Plumbum latin for lead, ala plumbers and their pipes
     of yesteryear.
Fire and brimestone actually fire and sulfur,
     still wrathful, though I always
     imagined brimstone as being a
     damning brick falling.

You won't be synthesized, maybe never discovered,
                yet we sense you near, proposed metal,
                silvery white and ghosting....
                              
                                      119.

i am underwater plugging
multiple leaks in this vessel
we built together.

but i’m not wet, i’m dry-
the driest shipwreck you
ever saw, deep down…

the moon looks
unnatural
in a hot sky
and rising and sinking
seem to reach the same
                                              
        conclusion.

today California traffic
dulls the loneliness,  
comrades in purpose,
in motion, in *******-ery,
only slightly hostile
in our law abiding,
hair blowing in the wind,
hazy sun washing out
this ***** town ways.
oh brother… I love them all.

three weeks is
an interesting time frame.
starting over today
and maybe tomorrow too.

i have four gallons of
holy water in my car
and I'm headed straight down.

looking for a sherpa with a kazoo at this point.

how linear would reincarnation be?
you know what I like,
no money/no news.

neon blue motel room,
Oroville, California-
how sweet to feel
warm air again.

can’t seem to fill
in these postcards,
words
spent on
the wrong meanings
all these years.

for what it's
worth, I chose
a 17th century
Flemish painted
azalea stamp for you,
stuck it in
the corner
where I've been
hovering,
        poised-

how do we get to sea level?
seeing vertiginous again
so soon was distracting,
maybe the answer is Prozac.

wish they'd stop putting quinoa
in ******* everything.
until then, coffee and
400 tilted miles westward.

succinct! Basho!
finally one sane country.

bought ten old sheets at
the thrift store today,
                     feverish whim

          these dreams of fire
          bolt me from sleep

escape a window two stories
high, a sheet rope, if I
had the nerve

who has  -nerve-  these days?

though still we bend over our                          
                                kno­ts..

reflect the sky at the dividing line
thousands, pilgrims, acrobatic flight
cautionary signals, holy outline
carry the form of grace and light.

countable and uncountable, alight
coastal meadows of purple aster
neon sun behind the fog, fading night
winged silhouettes settling at Big Sur.  

aerial blueprints, circling wet fir,
time resolved into opaque brushstroke,
compass lines, body before mind, umber
cliffs springing off a morning flock, awoke.

       red on red ridden their wild throats, pigment
       of deepest origin, indifferent.

see the woods drop to bare,
lush jungled being a blink-
      seasons liminal breath.

savage, sticky emptiness,
   flying geese through
   the bramble, naked
   bark framing blue,

sharp, so like grace- the path clear,
                                       space to move through.

bookseller, revving habit/fever

the Wright book, I say.
the poems about the tree,
           elbows on the counter.

i say i say i say, leaning in.

                                                         a drop of rain
                                                         lingers on a pine
                                                         needle   finds my
                                                         finger    my lips.  

unseen is not vacancy.

-

the question of a pile
of decayed blue feathers-

where does our power
come from?

             a magic trick-

off trail   recording time
many months and nothing,
though today my
       dead bird
       is back, disappearing.

today in Birmingham a man
clad in a post-atomic era Russian
nuke suit was pulled from his
windowless van by a trod of
hysterical mothers and slapped silly.

suspect was released from the hairdo
menagerie when police arrived at the scene
and assured the old biddies that yes, he really
just wanted to distribute free
organic
fairtrade
raw
sustainable
candy.

bought a cheap used toaster yesterday
what a world.

Ryokan can have
the moon -
        
          for me a single
          cricket,
          
          all angles and
          kinetic potential,
          violins before
          the boxwood
          was cut

          to sing.

surprising misdirections
      palliate these
      inadequacies.

floral hearts, echoic,

             right in the
                          unspoiled

                           ­                          middle.

until the turtle
sloughs us off

        Neruda Made of Carbon
        on the rooftop...

writing act two in free
verse with a
crescent moon
and his

       weird thought
             thinker taking notes.

my succulent bent its entire
lovely self towards the only
window. what is the will to
live besides minuscule
maneuvers, sensing what
can’t be touched, staying
comfortable enough,
not thinking about it?

hope you are doing
well and have stopped
rebelling against our
founding father's
cautionary counsels.

risky over here,
still doing kudzu
in hot water and
lighting off firecrackers
in the pouring rain.

i see a maze where you take every left

typesetting-

                   thought for the
                   sake of thought

(dangerous)

this used to be me, but I’m getting better
fix yourself before the machine!
narrow the lens-

                        up the
                      mountain
                         down
                   to the ocean

completing
the flow
         chart

in line at the bookstore
overhearing three suicides.

occupied,
endless vacuums
and no translation ....

- -

what poet has nothing to say?

eavesdropping as balm
for loneliness -

people aren’t
making it.

poem
    period
pistachio
         primitive

i’m googling how many
tires are on a garbage
truck and which elements
are unstable.

am i really this delightful?
ask uranium- there are degrees.
wouldn't **** me to finish
one **** thing.

hell, even Leonard Cohen
cleaned his kitchen.

petite build, rugged, compact
taking up no more space than necessary:
    
     stainless steel coffee mug
     snow pony tail, plain sweatshirt
     jeans, John Lennon’s round specs

sitting opposite me every day at the Peace Tree Café
middle of nowhere Southern Utah, the two of us
the most regular of regulars.

weekends selling flotsam outside Jim’s Trading Post,
scrounging the property taxes on his plot of pinyon pine.
i'd keep him company, consider each item
with solemn regard, unsure whether I was holding
a tractor part or a rusty time machine.

what’s this do, Peewee?
you should really keep this saw.
how much for these earrings?

gone now:

i wear his dead wife’s Celtic earrings
and think of us drinking coffee
laughing wildly, scaring the tourists.

discernment is a special grace-
       that phrase normally would
       have washed over me, but

     the fire’s getting faster and I’m
swearing at the gathered theories-

went back for every door I
could not open

      and saw from the muddled
result a blossoming,  altered
terrain still breathing inside out,

      we are here,
if only to put away the days
we circled our wagons,
pistols drawn, brave in the void.

//

the world is made of radio waves
and sonic booms,
short on sure signs,
            afraid to change the station.

let us pay attention to the
morning sun thieving under
our blue devil doors.

splayed in the grass
      my wool socks speak the sun first,
    warm talisman.

so much for
                       complex
    idols.
                  itch-free
                  moisture wicking,

      three shades of blue.

held a    book
     too long,
too         high
in the

air,

pulled   a
muscle.

hastily written
          reasons     to stay,
     distracted.

ruined
       another ***,
              water
                    to vapor,
                        charred to death.

   fireflies and starling

         m    u    r    m    u    r    a    t    i     o    n    s
          
like to think of
     inaction   as   a verb
              in times
              
                      like these.

time is the ultimate buzzkill
but when hungry, eat —
chop chop!

do I need to take a ray gun safety class before acquiring a ray gun?
hard to believe gravity exists…
I just realized I talk with my hands a lot.

no more weird dating ads about *** and mood disorders:
deep breathing and it will work out;
not my circus, not my monkeys.

we can make our own sure things,
if we’re not greedy holding on to
slow motion crashes, orchestrating
the wrong moves to prove a point-

               see, every action has infinite
                         reactions, depending on
                         your grip. my wreck, your
          
                          mosaic.

         as for this unruly air,  I
                                                    breathe it deep.

why drinking? Always!
i should try that
i love old knowable things
everything! Bigger out West
generalization, but ok (I do the same)
Phaedrus
morning person for sure
practical vs. artsy
is romanticism irrational, or just differently rational?

put ice under your hat
this whole thing is so **** Hollywood.
i dislike hierarchies- they’re simplifications
but they should!
superficially he’s not really here
ha! (Me)    
he’s trying, rather poorly, to fill the spaces with something other than thought

i see a maze where you take every left
metaphor
whoa guys whoa
but he doesn’t
thought for the sake of thought is dangerous
but what?
never truth, only conjecture
hmm?
but is it a human invention?
ah the perfect example

i am so intrigued by this unusual phrasing
building a base
quite bitter, this one
i’m bringing the whole thing down
the knife!
meet an old friend for the first time
i can’t draw a straight line
as he tries so hard to be
sounds like me when I’m vague
too much trust in technology

this reminds me of Ishmael
*** *** ***!
it’s all making so much sense now
familiar but ever-changing is what I want
a disciple!
when the only possible solution is go nuts- go nuts.
he’s a driven man
let me think
you need to narrow the lens
semi-aggro
yes yes yes yes yes

no immediate penalty
he’s typesetting
why do people need so many rules, rubrics and objectivity?
what’s wrong with a little mystery?
trying to define quality
the problem with philosophy is incomplete definitions to important words
hmmm, I disagree
using a lot more ellipses
a noble ambition

awe
some
should just bend and snap from this wind already
so much of the world is already inferred
i hate Socrates for this
the problem with words
an example, but what does it prove?
eliminate the knife!
hurts my head with its obviousness

aah, I see
a little cloudy, but there’s some sun
he’s entering rarified air
story of my life
he’s losing me
me gusta
numbers are a human invention, after all
this is over my head

be in the open country with someone
a generalist, too
i am most productive on coffee
a philosopher could write a 1000 page novel on the question “Are we alive?” And I could just say “Yes” and be done with it
let’s explode them
so monotone
beautiful  
up the mountain, down to the ocean
he’s getting absolutist again

here- have your cake and eat it too
back on track
getting tired of the lack of transition
like the houses on the way to Atherton
you’ve said this 500 times, let’s see it already
it’s slackening for me
how to BE the motorcycle
i hate twilight depression
i want a motorcycle

the *****
loves dividing things
this is all preparation
completing the flow chart

this used to be me, but I’m getting better
fix yourself before the machine
degrees of specificity, scope
a sense of the inner pressure
time away from noise and people helps him peer into that contradiction, that void
so ready to give in
intense… full of something
i know the problem-

        it’s wild, but safe

too long this has built up
part three was terrible
he’s experiencing universal loneliness
no more dams!
so much between the lines
battle of wits, I’m having fun
stop, eat, drive, eat, sleep, drive, etc
mans burden
never surrender

it’s moving too fast for me to keep up
but this requires a restructuring of thought and

       even

   society.




1988/2019

we may never occur to one another,
not in passing circles or dreams.
not even at the checkout flipping
through magazines, synapses firing
on everything else but us- no ground
shared to walk over.

almost had my way without
cracking, spread eagle
in universal position,
cast low in the turned fields

a thousand swans
slowing the sun
retracing collision
braided wings
fluttery on currents
of plummeting altitude