A routine reversal, hard rain at three last night, then blackout silence with its own brand of guile– a blend of impatience and dread, both long disassociated from anything tangible, also hope and its dampener, prior observation. It seems impossible, the stillness of the night, and what propels me towards the kitchen in search of a glass is a thirst for motion, and not for water.
Last night, the moon, over the lake– we slammed on our brakes, caught our breath, allowed it to swallow us. The storms have passed, with light acting strangely after sustained destruction, its opacity failing to soften the stark delineations of broken limbs. Their cut-back reach leaves more space to fill; a sly fog condenses on the forest floor, rises up to windows and doors, sounding out the double panes; when I woke this house was afloat in it, […]
[Nighthawks — after Hopper] Night renders them toys, people shapes, a yellow glow, how gratifying to see lives in motion– she stifles a yawn, he is looking for something, how safely intimate— there is always a space between all I could say, all that I could love, plate glass, evening air, a catalogue of neon, bent tubes lending a voice to the hours that should not ever have been reached, erratic streetlamps, a passing brakelight ring […]
The courtyard undergoes serial dilutions, the rain making miserable and pooling underfoot. There’s nothing that can’t wait. Or no consequence real enough to blunt this murk; it’s cold by the window but none of us move. Even the geese have long since bailed, a lone crow flies higher than usual, it doesn’t even look alive, but more like a hole, a mobile, missing piece of sky, and when the rain rises the crow goes too, or the […]
A sea town, or close enough, where some days brine settles on the hills, lingers in alleys, a sea breeze, at least a sea smell– not unpleasant, though the gulls get trashy here, stooping around to compete with crows, and some days like now the sun doesn’t come up, just the overall gray brightens and fades, and, sure, it gets rough– but these pockets of salt help to elevate the sense of place, refining streets where day-drunk men argue as they load […]
[This Cat] Demented by night, his eyes deep saucers for lapping up light, hungry for the hunt, naturalized to a sleepy house but not at home in it, residing more in the space between the jam and the barely -closed door or in motion just beyond the window, with midway desires, a contrary nature, to kill prey dead but also play, to go but stay, for me to hold his tensile weight, his lazy drape achieving the aim his involuntary […]
Typical, to dream of buying a lotto ticket, then to wake before scratching the silver foil off, too busy trying to find where I parked my dream-car, anxious, dream-late to a dream-place. Something exciting will happen soon, but nothing much will come of it, again, dreams only reflections (or projections?) of the real; forgotten ticket in bag, I wandered wooded streets, the neighborhood coming unfixed whenever I turned my back, whole roads replaced, trees growing menacing, fences sprung up– and I stayed lost until I […]
There is an unseen tide at play here, just audible when the conversation lulls. At times our words are large and difficult to hold, so like wet stones we let them fall where they will. At this time of year, everything is damp, laced or lapped, saturated or submerged, but without a tide-table I’m left unsure: this water will go out or will follow us home, or will do something else, that much is clear, that much I know.
[Composition] A yellow spray of leaves is framed by the window of a darkened room– after a week of bearing down things open up again, the solvent bank of trees, thin-limbed for miles, the pacific emptiness of an unlit room, stagnant with sleep, strikingly silent, its soft-focus objects slumping toward memory, a row of the same shoes facing the wall– but it’s negative space that draws the eye, these empty vessels can’t distract from an emptier one, […]
It’s a wash, a monochrome wash, blank on blank, a sky less than sky, striated by rain that won’t let up. Winter rye seed floats in the furrows, soon it should dig in, unfurl, give cover. Gone birds ink out arrows with wings. An instinct is flight. An instinct is to burrow. But which instinct is right? Blight-burnt leaves splatter the ground, damp adherence, the aim, the only real aim here, to get as far as we can, stick the landing, and […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 