a darker shape was always present

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (78)

after the worst of summer’s heat

we’d sit in the grass

beneath the pecan and cottonwoods

away from the radiant streets and sidewalks

the adults spoke of friends 

far away or long dead

they’d laugh and tell stories

which we were not a part of yet

we ran wild through the night

afraid of nothing

(July 18, 2020)

Lines Written in a Pandemic a Few Days After the Summer Solstice

from a work in progress: “Process, Not a Journey” (67)

our earth wobbles its way

about the sun like a drunk

unsure of her footing

moves again

toward the bar


day by day minute by minute

plods toward darkness

for the next six months

each day grows darker

by one minute


not quite disturbing

the dullard doves

who coo complacently

on the fence

cardinals and jays

fussing constantly

slip after each other

between tree branches

I watch and listen

to this dance

for hours

and can do nothing


as it was in the beginning

world without end

(June 23, 2020)

Art Opening

Austin, Texas: circa 1980
We were at an art opening, somewhere downtown near the warehouses where small machine parts were stored, before the buildings were turned into fashionable bars for the newly minted college graduates looking for places to spend their first independent incomes in one of the spasms of gentrification Austin has endured for the last 40 years. But that was yet to come. It was an old building, bare walls, no heating, or air-conditioning. The owner probably rented out the space cheap for the length of the show. Bits of cheese on crackers, tortilla chips and salsa were available to carry about on small paper plates. Generic jugs of red and white wine were scattered about the table, as well as a galvanized tub filled with the ubiquitous Shiner Bock. Blondie, The Police, or some other cross over “punk” played on a home stereo someone had set up in the corner. The artists were local college art professors trying to seem relevant to the to the gaggle of students who were there for the free beer and wine, before heading out to their own parties with live local bands. I wandered the room pretending to look at the art on the walls. The prices were too high for my part-time job and rent. Most were abstract, with a few figurative pieces trying to have an exotic southwestern feel to them. But even at 20 they felt forced and derivative.  I thought about the painting by Fantin-Latour, Un Coin De Table, where Verlaine and Rimbaud were sitting at a table with contemporary Parisian artists. The story went that one artist refused to be in the same painting as that nasty boy (Rimbaud). So where he sat the artist put a vase of flowers.  I wondered what Rimbaud would think about the conversations the students and professors were having, the fawning praise, the studiously ironic responses. I felt callow, and slightly embarrassed. I left quickly, saying I was going out for a smoke, and went home for the night to write.

(August 11, 2017)