Friday, December 12, 2014


My hands are rough, cut and scratched
Aching from injuries
Hammer pounds and plier pinches, rock scrapes and briar stings
As I grasp this pencil to write these words
My fingers tingle with the crawling sleep of some neuralgia
Crackle as objects pass over their brittle surface 
The finest dirt has settled into the deepening lines
Filling the now visible prints with iron dark dust
Extending through my palms

December 12, 2014


Tuesday, December 02, 2014

December 2

I read dream sleep wake piss
Make a coffee two three four
A meal two three four
I talk and love and regret
I dig and dig out care for and kill
Toss aside without a thought
And sometimes I kill the wrong thing
By mistake in haste in the passion of the moment
Curse sweep up and forget
I am a gardener father husband or father husband gardener or husband father gardener
Now and then I teach or sing or make flickering things for strangers
And then I dream again


Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Four in the morning soup

There is music in my mind
Songs of others
I try to remember what I dreamt last night
Because I solved our greatest problems
Vanquished anger and doubt
Swam Einstein’s trail untethered
Saw it all so clearly
A minor alteration was all that was needed
Saying yes
Saying yes
In the face of anger and loss
Mine ours
Yes, that’s it
Now I remember
I woke to the music
And then I made some soup
To keep at bay the cold that arrived last week
Slipped up on us it did
Right behind the sunshine it was waiting
My beans were soaked and ready
Four in the morning soup
Before the rest of the town is up my soup is cooking
For the coming nights
When my family comes back to me
Cold and hungry
Yes I’ll be ready
Yes I’ll fill them up