Our country is drenched in oil
and your body is
has rubbed together
all the dry books you read.
You learned nothing
about how polluted
friendly people can be
like too much lead in water.
8" x 6" single signature with hand sewn binding
Published October 2016
6.5" x 6.5" single signature with hand sewn binding
Published October 2016
I dreamt that I broke my key
off in the side door
and not for the first time.
I stood there,
wide-eyed and open-mouthed,
looking at the fat bit of bronzed metal
in my hand and the jagged
sticking out of the off-white door.
Our town ventriloquist
amazed without a dummy,
putting his words into the mouths
of local people and their pets.
Politicians on TV certainly benefited.
It took skill, so few of us even bothered moving our lips
after a few years of silence and/or doubt.
Especially uncomfortable conversations
he would have with himself
when neighbors weren’t around to hear.
We collect in murders, spy
the eaves, survey the alleys,
streets, sidewalks. We receive
those who belong, flag those
who don’t. It was only last week
that the mother with the hawkish
nose, the mother with the talon grip,
called her small child. Mittens trailed...
The Angel of Death had yellow—
and-black wings that looked
gold and gray in the setting sun.
You can be killed any time
by someone you don’t know.
My mother’s side of the family doesn’t
exist anymore. Someone killed them all—
had them gassed, shot, hanged, injected.
I can’t think too much about it without
feeling I’m meeting the person I might’ve
been. Billions of us occupy the same small
planet, but it only seems like we’re sharing...
after a career of running guns
in North Africa, Rimbaud succumbed
to either syphilis
or carcinoma (depends on who you've read)
in Marseille in the care of his sister,
much as he had written.
he was thirty-seven–
same age as Mozart.
Zen Masters, it is said,
recite a poem at the exact
moment of their death,
often ending with
the exclamation "Ha!"–
on that mouth
feel what it feels
to be the carriage
of all that burns.
Breathe in its burden.
Know the pond’s tremor
as the Great Blue Heron Lands
Because the pitch pines have been frozen
all season, they clatter in the dunes,
snap down to the blood sap,
slender and rigid as boys at attention.
In the frigid sand, to move is to break.
Each overlapping wave a shard,
here, tectonic plates of ice crowd the shore.
Yours is a burning earth.
Wind-ground sand, fine as talc,
claims the air, no tolerance
for emptiness. The space in your sleep
where we belong, where our daughter belongs,
is sealed up tight and safe—
too safe to be of any comfort.
We are none of us free from harm...