there's got to be more below the surface
“a border is never neutral”
—Jaques Derrida
on a map it is a line drawn
in color across the landscape
it’s arbitrary except for words
which no longer make sense
when placed abstractly on trees
and through creek beds
no one sees them except
the ones who kill ones
who speak their vowels
elongated or shortened
(March 11, 2021)
I wake,
and hear
a sound
downstairs;
probably
the cat.
I listen
in the dark,
watching
shadows
shift
across the ceiling.
I don’t get up
to check;
although,
I probably should.
The cat’s asleep
nearby.
(September 21, 2020)
“stop, children, what’s that sound
everybody look what’s going down”
—Stephen Stills
Another day spreads across the sky
as the flood waters continue to rise.
There is little to stand upon now
that does not tip into complicity.
Ice melts along its edges. One moment
we are there watching the turmoil
below our feet, then the ice is gone,
and we are all breathing water,
floundering in the lies we live.
Our words fill our lungs, and
silence gurgles past our lips
as we slip slowly deeper
beneath the cold gelatinous sea,
to drown in our undeserved comforts
(June 8, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (34)
as i drive to work each day
at eighty miles per hour i slip
between concrete meridians
and rattling White Freight Liners
the eighteen wheelers heave
and pitch in the next lane
like fat cattlemen at an auction
on the radio news of war
and poverty of graft and greed
play out like melodramas
without an easy denouement
the girl remains on the tracks
the train bears down the villian
laughs world without end
among the grass beside the road
my ghosts slowly sing in whispers
this is the time we have become
this is our time to overcome
(March 4, 2020)
from an untitled serial poem (2)
tufts of dark fur
scraps of red cloth
broken glasses pools
of wine the remnants
of someone’s meal
are splashed across
the cottage like blood
on a butcher’s apron
she is not here
neither is he
one fled
one’s dead
birds hop and sing
on the window sill
a family of rabbits
nibble grass
along the path
the door lies shattered
on the ground
dry splinters of wood
punctuate the grass
with unvoiced cliches
(January 3, 2020)
Yes, even today—
as dark devours day,
light breaks the night.
(December 11, 2019)
A pile of essays,
formulaic and so dull—
no real data here.
(October 22, 2019)
Bourbon’s no answer,
yet, our day begs the question—
Where else could I be?
(October 18, 2019)
October begins;
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)
