This maple’s a mess but might have been worse there must have been some arborist come to cut back limbs to stumps, I don’t recall it but then the evidence was mostly hidden by leaves; it took a lot of wind to get to this point. I also had to ask if this gate has always been here? Walking through a door being a cue to forget, but still I wonder about how hard it is […]
i. Again with these nights like oceans they come in fast and strong— it’s easy to forget just how much of this earth is coastline— roughly the same distance as from here to the moon. ii. Distance first is cruel, and then kind, and then necessary— our closest star is alpha Centauri, and it isn’t even a star, but two, a visual binary, close, at 23 AUs, or 3,440,751,030 km, so take that as […]
In the weeds and getting pretty damn salty– this week descends into the colloquial– no well-heeled words could ever do it justice, too upscale, they don’t get tired out, stretched to cover multitudes, they miss nuance, don’t say just how weary it gets– preservation, versus hanging on the line– only one hints at the prospect of falling, but knows that you won’t, as you can swing it, babe, you’re golden– is hope in the fucking rough
Late at night it gets so hollow– the stars precise, nearly clinical, the silence of it all silencing all. So now we’ve learned it’s possible to choke on open air this cold– it leaves a bitter taste, and once again open space is not the end all be all that I always expect, having failed to differentiate the land from the promise we’ve attached.
This day won’t budge it’s thick as ice caked on a west- facing windshield at once dense and brittle with its inherent duality of fragility and danger we only expect one at once at least I am surprised when a weakness has a weakness surprised to find the crack in the monotonous heaviness that cannot last it always does itself in in the end there’s an end there always is.
A flat five, the coldest night and in the black beyond the house, three owls. Is there a reward for hope? Or is necessity a mother? I do like the answer, here, have an owl, have owls, have stars, have cold air to see your breath, it’s not much but it is everything.
i. Morning snow is kind snow– clear sun, blue sky, where exactly does it come from? The best gifts have an air of mystery about them. ii. Last day– that gallows feel tempered by the brightness of the sun, care for flood warnings put off till tomorrow, maybe the rivers will recede by then. iii. At any given moment, a living thing is ahead or behind, I don’t think we are ever fully in one place, but jitter around a point in time […]
The clouds come low down the butte the tree line smeared blue the rest given up to sky. It may snow, but isn’t as cold as it looks, but maybe later on– the lake dead still, the dog won’t eat, nothing moves in the sagebrush, no birds, a lack that makes this quiet so disquieting– we all wait for something, it’s holding us up.
What happened to the owl, here? It used to perch on the corner of the roof above the back bedroom, and one summer there were three, if not a parliament, at least a party, a triangulation of HOO, Hoo, and hoo, the farthest just beyond the property line, and then there was that one that just went EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE the only animal sound I’ve been able to duplicate convincingly, and so we went back and forth, […]
[Sketch] A conservative palette is in place, here– the reeds, barn, hawk-on-the-wire, trestle, even the train, the same exact hue of rust. These are colors of decay, if limited in range, abundant in texture, rough snow in warming air, an off-white horse kneeling in a swampy pasture. It’s hard to keep a station in the foothills, but imagine how they run over the rocks, waves of words and songs getting lost, a few civilized fibers, a net in […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 