Clearing

my palm counters clockwise, looses shades of green from corners out open windows. we t(w)o pursue center. seeds and hulls and flower shaped systems spiral from the heart to the belly, pervade soil beyond the roots of trees, beyond bedrock. our fence is sway and faded. pressed by the rheumy quiet of transformation. wisteria has twined itself around posts. each night an opossum balances the pickets, toes twisted for grip, bobbing in and out of darkness. breath goes to all the places breath is supposed to go. i see silence, feel vacancy. in a meadow an amethyst sloughs it’s crust. follow grass Love, rustle blades, open each sheath, and spread to the becoming..

Migration

tanagers whistle toward the flock
criss-cross mountain range
and follow marsh.
precise are the skies
abundant the earth
refuge is quiet and waiting.
to harness power is shortsighted
the grids are laid out.
when they open to a field
the sky is
wrought with red
remembered.
most rise silent.
there is an order of return
when the time comes
wings break way
and the path is known.

Friday Morning Fire

Sparks blow to the confluence
0ur fire burns to shard and ashes
ice is on the ground.
Iris stalks are thick with buds
pale from lack of food
the absence of sun.
One week sooner
might have staved off death.
This year’s openings
mistimed
too tired and too broke.
I’ve never told I want
to skip over lines of the labyrinth
am afraid to cheat
haven’t watched an owl
fly through the window
or been to Scotland.
The way you’ve grown into
your body is beautiful
never thought that would happen
or that I could reconcile

me growing out of mine.

Mockingbird Review

Incite one call

that growth matters.

A swoop of eyes

machined to watch

nature appear again

and the world buds

dark sisters

green shadows

that work best
under intense radiance.

They recognize curtains and linger on

numbed down pathways

ripped out coastlines.

They mark water

and adopt kindness

pretend not to salivate

all intention fixed

beyond the wire.

THE FEVER OF STARS

Before rain, flies cling to the window screen
and the under side of leaves turn up
wide to take on water.
There cometh a shower, the bible says
and a fierce wind will blow.
I can bend simple enough
pass through prism and sky to pull
the blunt force of sun as it strikes a raindrop.
You are refracted light
and I emerge eggshell above blue
reaching and reaching.
The right choice will come to pass
for no one can really see day
until it moves on the horizon
loaded with reasons to keep wholly alive
every nuance outstretched for the fringe
every wonder pressed into a deep brow.
We scream for the stars to come closer
to our avalanche of complacency.
Slow and private, they are on their way.

Absolute (Joshua Tree)

The sun conceives ground


curled north enough


to move stars


longitudes that must


be plod alone.


Each left stroke


ignites summer


swells the sky.


The air


a benediction


of immutable days


questioned.


Calm 


transparency.


Wholeness is chosen


then remembered


fluid.


Words lie


past care


altogether


so we are silent


and sacred


and solitary


on the rocks.

YOU ARE MY AIR

Secrets are visible at their tip
curved toward the heart
as stalk bound for water.
We pull back
but seed and root rush out
a swallow becomes a jolt
eventually a pulse
in the dark of ground
hyacinth handed down from mother
to son and every daughter
the dryness of love
the wet of the body
has no choice but to crest
hold in the belly
and wosh in the cold white of lungs.

RECORD OF THE SUN

Angles of light are the song
of a body woven in morning
fire and cord and swollen
white in the air.
We strain to right our vision
against a pink sky
so trees will come into focus
escape prisms that reflect
the thick of day and turn toward
the interclavicular of darkness.
Take care our voices echo off the the lake.
There is still surprise when Earth calls.
One does not arrive simply
but must be pushed in and pulled out
each wave of intention
each shift of eye
mulched between
heartbeat and bone.

RED STALK

Unbearable to watch
the body change.
My yesterday wants
to join the border of you
when we were ordained
the essence of one another
before we understood
many will never find their way
and vague apologies
like I’m sorry to end it like this
or happiness is what I hope for
are dreaded strokes into a tunnel.
You call it the silence of god
with something smacking of pride.
I call it a mind fuck
that obscures the extraordinary
bonds that unite
and set the body in motion.
The beat in the soft of a throat
the high when I feel
a glint of your eye before I see it.
Our familiar is recorded in
each soft and loosed finger
slowly conditioned to let go.

EARN THE RIGHT

The body flies, it spits


Black, polish and water.


Round and round secrets spoon


In the toe of low quarters


The white noise


Of bristle against leather


Heeled and soled, surged and starched


Until the mission is over


Save two scars in the wall of your scalp.


The heart yellows over


Believing that someone will


Take and become truth given.


An inventory of what could be done better


Hangs limp and ineffective.


A pulsing tongue


Waits to take control


Flicks behind teeth


Pinions and coils


To beat to hell


Soft urging, dark grabbing


Pancaked, budded palms


And desire swallowed


As asparagus gone to wood

Stringy and hard and sallow.

GRACE IN ABERDEEN

Sleep comes
vivid and holding
thrust in curves of serration
helpless to decipher
between weed and flower
iron stain or rust.
The cool beneath my pillow
expels river-thick heat
to cypress from jalousie.
Days are reckoned
as laundry strung out
children laughing
and the consideration
of each first gush
that all are called to the wellspring
clumsy and unaware
mid stalks and thorns
and urge(d) to drink.

IN THE HUSH

While you sleep my hand resurrects
questions in limestone and bronze
the scuffle of honeysuckle
at the windowsill is wrapped in pretend.
After-all what do we really claim beyond
the weight of a head on a pillow.
There are times I scream out loud
to fix vocabulary, to tie the light
to anoint a prayer with the unconsciousness of dawn
send off the parts that lie irreverent and alone
obsessed with the refuge of fire.
Every sunrise is the moon in cinders
a finger echoed in the arch of a foot
the dust and ochre of a moth winging.

LEFT OVER

The days strike down
barely held hours
between bed and toilet
anticipate slide of moon
and unpredictable sun.
Cold rooms keep bacteria down
washed and covered with latex
a needle’s slow intercourse
with dry and pallid skin
grabs enough life to undream
rays that dissect night.
There are many days to die
rather than mourn
the loss of extremities
revel in skin and bone
stripped muscle
smooth pussy
still in need
of consummation.

LORD'S PRAYER

The vast hollow where sin ricochets
off the alter is burnt and smudged
on my forehead, an embedded red stone.
Forgive me for bite marks and bruises
I can't remember my teeth
I want to die
want others dead
the scent of the man
in the pew up front is delicious.
And forgive me my trespasses
as I forgive those who condescend.
The woman priest
tilts her head with authority
holds her hands with contrived grace
accents each line with pause as she reads.
Lead us not into the vulgarity of correctness
I promise to abstain from sugar and too much wine.
The children have begun to lie
the best liars never get caught.
If they die or lose their minds on drugs
I will move to Colorado.

DRAGLIN/ DRAG-LION

Earth holds a rough imprint
under patches of green
layers of chap
before prime and crescent
facilitate the pass
of clutch and throttle
topsoil ripped by steel
teeth thrown out
from a giant erection.
Pushback the grass
the hornet’s silence
the huckleberry
hoist out
all available nourishment
drop-swing the bucket
pack the silted pile smooth
chain creeps over the boom
dragline swings smoothly on its pinion
hands grasp levers worn shiny smooth
a lump in my throat
as the big spool begins
to sing back in
the sweet smell of diesel
soaks my hair
every day
the engine spews black
breath glow warmed
plugged pistons
top dead center
bottom dead center
grease
the raiment of a working man
stain that never washes clean
becomes acceptable
in the ratcheted trance
of caterpillar tracks
the tilt and swing
of a mammoth mouth.