“Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.”
—William Blake
The cabinet clock has stopped again.
After following me through the house,
the chihuahua curls in my lap,
This morning, I’ve read some poetry,
talked to Lisa over a breakfast I made,
and folded laundry. Now, I take time
to think, and write this poem
as the dog sleeps contently nearby.
I think about winding the clock, then don’t.
(April 24, 2025)
I finished Lost in Austin by Alex Hannaford in a couple of days. It disaggregates the changes in Austin for the worse over the last 25 years (for the most part, with some historical background going back into the 1980’s). My experience of living in the Austin area since 1978 confirms all of what he says in the book. Austin has become too expensive to live in: median income versus median housing costs do not match up. Living in a semi-arid region which is quickly becoming flat out arid due to climate change causes the city to not be “fun” to live in. The increasing descent into right-wing political madness makes the social/political climate unbearable to those attracted to the laid back attitude of Austin. While I agree with most of what Hannaford details in the book about the changes in Austin, I can’t help but think about the old light bulb joke: How many Austinites does it take to change a light bulb? Three. One to change the light bulb, and two to talk about how much better the old light bulb was. Austin has always been different to each succeeding wave of people who move here. The book is a fast read, Hannaford keeps things moving. His mixture of personal reflection of “his Austin” with historical facts (most of which I remember as they occurred) make it an enjoyable and informative book. The sad part is that, like him, it makes me want to finally give up on “my Austin” and move.
As if leading a ritual, the dogs wake me from dream. Their wet noses snuffle in my ear, scenting for traces of consciousness. I slowly collect myself, then escape down the stairs alone. Their task complete, the dogs curl into the warm shapes I leave behind in the tangled sheets. I’m cold, so I wrap myself in one of the brightly colored Mexican blankets Lisa bought more than twenty years ago along the border. Behind me on the counter, the coffee pot begins to gurgle and spurt. I watch through the sliding glass door as the leaves fall from the cottonwood and sycamore out back. Chasing squirrels most of the day, the dogs have worn two paths through the grass, each ending in the same place on the far side of the cypress at the bottom of the yard. These paths breathe cliche, no less so because mundane. The squirrels, out early, leap from tree to tree, dropping to the ground unmolested to collect acorns they buried, somehow remembering where they are months after the fact.
(December 10, 2024)
the shadows of the crepe myrtle
outside the window I sit next to
sway across the page of my book
like an old couple decades in love
slow dance to music only they hear
(November 6, 2024)
“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
—Oscar Wilde
Late at night, beneath a new moon, after too much cheap vodka and pot, a group of us, friends for most of our lives, gathered out on Tipton Road, a one lane gravel road running between two farms a few miles outside of town. The closest light glowed dimly from a farm house a mile or so in the distance. Infrequently faces were illuminated briefly like angels in old paintings as someone lit a cigarette or another joint only to disappear quickly back into the dark. We talked quietly about impending graduation, going off to college, or jobs, or the military; our parents, our girlfriends, knowing we were all losing touch as we spoke.
As we headed back to the cars, someone said, “Where’s Jackie?” He had wandered off on his own without anyone noticing. We all started calling for him in the dark. No response. We called again, then again: no response. Then faintly from a ditch next to a corn field down the road, we heard him giggle to himself, then shout out, “The stars— Man— look at the stars— look up— the stars are so close.” As one, we all looked up. The stars were brilliant and beatific, as for that moment were we.
We pulled Jackie out of the ditch, staggered to the cars, then finally back into the dark to find our separate ways home.
(March 29, 2024)
From a distance
across green fields,
our house appears
idyllic and pastoral.
While unseen beneath
twined ivy vines,
the loose mortar
and ancient beams
await repair.
Crowned with roses
and scented bay,
we face each other,
seeing different paths
of the world we are.
I offer what I have,
as do you, not knowing
if there is enough
in our worn cups
to sustain us
through another year—
trusting love
continually heals
the wounds it creates.
(October 23, 2023)
“If I knew what I was doing, I’d be doing it right now…”
—Radney Foster
Another morning sun trickles
through the cottonwoods. Today,
I have time to write. Instead,
I watch the cardinal pair twitter
from branch to branch, fluttering
like drunken dancers in love.
I have nothing to say; yet, today
that is enough. The cottonwoods
slowly clatter in the soft breeze,
while the grey cat purrs at my feet.
(July 1, 2022)
when I wake
into the night
uncertain
of where
I am
I hear your breath
nearby
a surety
you are
still
a part
of me
(April 15, 2021)
by
the cat slept all day
turned tightly into herself
a sublime wisdom
snow begins to fall
silencing the day’s hard sleet
the night grows colder
ice brightens the moon
along the bare branches’ backs
like a hot whip’s snap
by morning the snow
drapes the yard as if with light
the chimes slowly sound
a lone mockingbird chirrups
inside the house the cat waits
(February 18, 2021)
you walk home
it’s late
the snow falls
as thick as your dreams
when suddenly you think
you’re lost and the wood
nearby is strangely
far from home
the bright lights flash
patterns on the snow
like christmas lights
in the village square
the sheriff interrupts you
to say no that yes it is
a normal amount of blood
for a woman that size
you laugh at the absurdity
of dying so close to your home
what was the point of leaving
when you had nowhere to go
(October 12, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (71)
some time after sunrise I wake
go downstairs book notebook
pen in hand make coffee take
my meds check various
social platforms eat some thing
shower get dressed
sometimes read sometimes write
sometimes nap wake
cook dinner wash the dishes
watch TV listen to music and
then after some time go to sleep
(July 2, 2020)
Several weeks ago something made me think about rereading Tristan Tzara’s “Approximate Man.” I searched every bookcase in the house multiple times( yes, I am obsessive). I couldn’t find it. I knew I had not loaned it out… I mean who do I know that would want to read it? Then yesterday, from across the room, I spotted it on the shelf in plain sight. I figure a ghost, or old age.
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