this night is loud the house continually settling a clatter of stars or do they ring out like fallen coins to steal a moment convincingly there can be no hesitation a minute must be occupied completely by nothing at all a low jet-plane and thoughts intrude and now it is just late dawn coming head-on from miles away
Again, short days. What else is there to say? Besides all the things a night can be: Clarity of skyline, articulate distance. I love the red of WONDER BREAD, of CITY LIGHT, old neon signs, all heart. It’s no good here in the thick of it, LED bright and still the ankle twists to the gutter. A huddle passes, soft people, shapes only, the very power of suggestion. And then the street empties out, except […]
And here we are, snow come and melted, the same cool gray as ever. This damp feels like the smell of home after a time away, familiar become new, for just a moment, novel, known. And here we are, the year dwindling, eternal northern nights. Breath like a cloud. It isn’t sadness yet, but something more rare. We had a true blizzard once, trees felled by ice. Numbering the days: what was, what will. Turning […]
After a fall the margins of a bruise, lilac, ugliness is only contextual. How quickly a state changes, at full speed and then fallen, been befelled, complanate, decumbent, laughing at the slick night, no pain, yet, just awareness, again, of sublimation– run, ran, running– of location relative to the hard dark plane of sky.
// Berceuse // The small dog got her hackles up before the owl lit on the roof a small soft sound like a slide of dirt outside in the open stretch of night its compatriot hoo-ed and we argued over stars this is arcturus or is it mars? I was wrong; dry air, water in my eyes, the largesse of sky cradled in these dry grass hills– the town, the hour, everything stilled, even the tumult […]
I got on the wrong bridge and had to leave town. True story, and more to read there than these dreams– deep water, still water, such a dumb expanse today, a blue stilled tongue, but for what cause? There’s the unease, as cars spill like beads across these spans– to regret is to be on the wrong side of something. Even sleeping now I am chasing it– What? I don’t know. Only that I’ve missed […]
[1] New construction, half this city is empty, prematurely gutted. Dark blocks, wide swaths of light and the knife-edge of a night, designed for carving. Such an uncomfortable clarity that comes at these hours, hurtling blindly at a great rate of speed, every second falling free from the world until the earth rolls up again to meet our feet .
The moth-heart hours doubt-dusted the moon an always open eye even silence resonates a night has a tenor some brittle tone a wave breaks but what of it the shore is not a home
Crescent moon above the skyline so many offices with lights on, all night, still mostly empty vacant eyes and you can’t really see a city from inside but at the crest of the hill there’s songbirds and dawn
Such a still night. There’s the silent police light, blue cyclic, a car stopped on the tracks. I pass, catch phrases by surprise– I don’t care and should we try? This day has gone by in a thumb of pages, brisk breeze, alacrity. People siphon off down alleys. The city is never not bright– two tickers wrap around buildings– a strip club, and headlines. The theme is themes– the cycle repeats itself, among angular buildings, a ring. Meaning a call, or a promise– […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 