Poetry & Prose
Typing
Typing hours I relax my hands arms dangling fingers spread beside the chair I feel the cat’s rough nose rubbed in my palm. How did she know, after hours of artifice, my hand needed animal attention? 1972
Gravid Cezanne
Celebrating Paul Cezanne (1839-1906) Cezanne, out with his easel near Aix-en-Provence, painted gravity with a light brush, coaxing round density out of apples, the angular geometry of men playing cards, mountain massiveness against civilized sight. Sensation is our...
My Eternity
It is blue. It is green, not pearl white, not golden, and infinitely brief. 2000
The Photograph
I am looking at a photograph from World War II. A soldier stands alone facing north toward China. His left foot rests on a football as if he had just stopped its bouncing and his hat is cockeyed as if he had just slapped it on. He appears at the right edge of the...
Crunch
I want to celebrate the talent of teeth, the bite, the grind, the tear, the chew, something my gums alone couldn’t do. Mexican street corn is best. I pop in the fire flavored kernels one by one in homage to my teeth. My jaws crush the tough roasted kernels,...
A Short List
A short list of people who were never born, not conceived, not thought up, until now not even fictional. Romulus Baird Laurel Frankenstar Bertram Bacardus Willy Simgrip Ivor Pollingham Missy Darman Hans Harlow Renee Tussore Tuzla Niderstill Rosa Effel They will never...
On a Shore
On a shore in west Montana the universe grinds on a stone. Waters rush, sturdy grasses rustle. Farther out, bright-eyed iridescent trout hunt trap-mouthed for plump, delicious bugs flashing in the sun. Nearby, stolid mountains faking sleep, await orders from deep...
In the Restaurant
Three girls arrived in all loveliness that is the blossoming of women, and sat at a table near mine in bright conversation. Suddenly two boys appeared like lightening without the storm and sat down with them slovenly, pink knees jagged through jean holes and caps...
Accidental
The planet is dead Killed by cold children Playing with fire.
Death
after reading Japanese death poems I am against death, not dying, exactly, but death, the way we do it. We don’t do death, death does us. Death is not a temporary inconvenience, certainly not for the deceased. When it’s over, mourners want to get in the...