summer still burns the dry air.
We must change our lives.
(October 1, 2019)
Always nearby, Fear hangs back
floating like the hint of smoke
on the horizon. The city lies
in that direction. Home lies
in that direction. We are not
going back again. Still, it comes.
Its tongue insinuates the air; soft
words clot our ears with ice.
This is the time which we live in:
slow lumbering ideas, empty and angry,
tumble through the streets like rocks
tossed by giants from mountain tops.
No one notices the viscous fire
burning the flesh from our bones.
(September 4, 2019)
“knowing less than drugged beasts”
–Ezra Pound, Canto XLVII
As we cower
beneath an array of bullets,
there is no forgiveness
for not knowing
the shades within shades
of evil. Yet, in this land
without shade, neither knowing
nothing, nor how to sail, nor
to have a sea to set forth upon,
even if a boat were here
in this desolate land
of sated men, and drugged beasts:
knowing nothing is cherished
as a privileged pleasure;
and so, I raise my voice
without delay, and sing
as if I could sow with my voice
in the cracked earth
some salvation from the sun.
(August 8, 2019)
from “Rendition of Change,” a work in progress
The old tortoise-shell cat slips
cautiously through the grass
as the storm approaches.
small comfort in the moment’s
chaos and fear. Lightning strikes
often and nearby. As rain
starts to fall, the cat watches,
motionless, from the stair.
(July 3, 2019)