Monthly Archives: September 2015

military-industrial sunrise

dawn lifts me from sleep
like a cloud over the mountaintop—
precious cargo of my dreams
fleeing, leaving me
in the vast desert of consciousness.

microscopic ignitions inside my skull,
like cans of pop being opened,
go off every few seconds—
volcanic eruptions on the synaptic scale.

i sit up dazed at the foot of a monolithic tree
decorated w neon green moss,
rising to heaven—ageless tower,
incomprehensible babble.

oh! that these lines be not so complex,
that you hear the sound of my simple mind waking,
reaching, stretching, hoping, aching,
and from your own bed see the same sky breaking. Continue reading

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seven lines

what truth can possibly be expressed
on a white page
in blue ink
under red light
against the mountainside
beneath dark skies
with only seven lines? Continue reading

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i believe (2015)

i believe in the radiant sunset
and its sister—

i believe in the salt flats,
stretching for miles and miles,

i believe in Love,
blowing everywhere around the world
like the wind.

i believe in the highway
because it’s the fastest way to go.

i believe in the now,
the fast-dashing rabbit you may glimpse
here and there.

i believe in rhythm.
i do believe,
i believe in rhythm.

i believe i began writing this
before knowing a single thing
i believed. Continue reading

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on Swift

If I may share a word or two—
And in his rhyme and rhythm too—
I’d like to riff on Jonathan Swift,
Whom I assure you is not missed.

The famous Irish writer’s name,
Though wreathed as Pope’s in golden flame,
Should be extinguished from the shelves
And thereby save us from ourselves.
For I’m familiar (as are you)
With Lilliputians and the yahoo,
Widespread as Carroll’s Cheshire.
And yet, this is not satire:
I’d sooner smash my eyes with gavels
Than read more of that Gulliver’s Travels!
“His magnum opus,” so they say,
But still just spittle, drunkard’s spray.
If that’s the best, then what’s the worst?
My friends, avoid his tiresome verse.
Misogynistic, biting, dull,
The work of a self-loving skull.
Oh watch him whack on Whigs and Tories!
Another poem? More dreadful stories…

So if you find yourself slipping
To ancient eras’ black ink dripping,
To Woolf or Dickens, Dryden drift,
But God forbid you pick up Swift. Continue reading

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