neither knowing nor unknowing (#134)

there in the day

to day constancy

there in the grain

of our tongues

as we speak

each to each

of the most

trivial things

there is where

the how arrives

on soft cat feet

oblivious of the night

there is the story

you said then said

along the seams

between dark and light

the story we heard

the story we tell

stitching our scars

along calloused lines

one strangled knot

woven into another

an embroidery

of nooses

until we’re hardened

to brittle words

which shatter all

we once were

thin crystal slivers

from a broken glass 

scattered like stars

across the floor

(April 19, 2021)

there’s no time

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)

life’s ritual stutter

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (27)

days copy days

as if life stutters

what’s to be said

until finally

one’s last word’s


(February 16, 2020)

Late October Morning

Darkness surrounds me

as the coffee pot gurgles.

A cat purrs nearby.

(October 23, 2019)


I put on my socks.

The sun slides across the sky.

I take off my socks.

(October 15, 2019)

We are the Light

“It’s up to poets to revive the gods.”

                        —-Jim Harrison

There are no more gods

to conjure our hope

against this darkness,

no soft rituals

filled with smoke and fire

to sate writhing snakes.

We must shape the dark

to find ourselves

a space to live,

protected from rain

and heat, a space

to sleep and be reborn.

We alone must be

the wood and spark.

(August 29,2019)

around a ring, not in a ring

not fairies

but fire

voices dance

dispelling fear

motion as motion

blur the air

not here yet


(March 12, 2019)

The Abysmal

from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress

Yet again, the river rages;

I know what to do now,

after so many years.

(March 8, 2019)


I project myself onto a new world

Which is not mine, but simply becomes mine.

These become moments when something happens

And nothing happens. I exist tangled

In marginalia, a handwriting

Stitched upon the edges. Another book

Becomes a palimpsest to my tired thought,

A filter to strain away the slither.

Roman priests examined the intestines

Of animals slaughtered for sacrifice.

To devine auguries in the moment,

When something happened, and nothing happened,

They would take the eviscerated signs-

The clots of blood, the bits of flesh, as truth.

(November 30, 2018)




I step out the door,

Another muggy fall day:

Mules trudge through the field.


Mud slowly sucks at my step;

I shall fall and become earth.


(September 20, 2018)