we stood transfixed,
transported in the splendor:
splenetic though we’d traveled,
traversing mood and parsimony,
particularly aggrieved,
aghast in light of our ignorant

paralyzed and paraphrased,
odiferous and otiose,
we nevertheless found nemesis,
colloquial colors, and
exculpatory explosions

scalene possibilities

scalene possibilities, left
to rot and oxidize out
in fields where ambition
passed into nonbeing, knowing
only that what once behaved like
people, now behaves like

calls come in through a
central switchboard, desperate
requests for meeting with
the council or the mayor of
retrogressive turpitude, following
nights of snow and
tumbleweeds that have heard
all your

A colossus of dusty Rhodes, once

On a high and windy Calvin hill

And dale Evans was crossed beside

The middle Sea —

We stood in broken line of sight

Of many battlefields that ran with

The Chicago bulls, and many an

Ancient Seattle mariner had dared only

Wear pink if its one of your colors

Still waving

Photo credit : ID 100750893 Gorelovs |, modified by Adobe Photoshop

2017 : October

falling time, dissembling and melting,
tore along the drift across the plain;
our cabinets were full, our wagons loaded,
a caravan of camion and dray
beneath the clouds of apricot and gray.

we lost some people, maybe, back in kearney;
we lost a wagon, surely, out in blair —
but far away from anything like distance,
we slept beneath a tired clump of trees
whose only friends were random bits of breeze.

a chill first, then a storm across the prairie,
we hunkered down to weather, best we could,
for seven days and nights the anagogic
swept across our wagons and our heads
and tore our feeble canopies to shreds.

and then one day, i rose: the camp was empty —
for all had turned, and headed back for home —
amid the ponds and puddles of the after,
i picked up pans, and scraped off pork-and-beans,
i gathered what there was of spare canteens,

i loaded up to keep our westward way,
no one to hear whatever i might say —

so creepy in the silence, ill-at-ease,
but free to do whatever i might please,

i placed some towels along my head for screens,
to prove i was a man
a man
of means

detachment three.

three and one-half of three

i know nobody knows the things you know,
yet i don’t know them, either

connection, that most mysterious of all

missed connections, that most common of all

born to someone whose connection with us
burns with the intensity of stellar cores

how do we ever find that energy again?
or did we never really have it?

now, in the dried-out half of life, i find
the world scorns anyone who is not moist;
as the only thing i might have that would invite connection
is on my dresser, made of plastic:
and written on calendars, in
another room of this house,
are words i can’t recapture, since
the author is no longer here

i would share my grief if i could;
i would try to connect

but flitting through my mind are only
hexagonal shapes

if you made it to this line

a little past beyond

a little past beyond around
the turn of tide
a realization can be found
then nullified

for wanting is not having nor
is yearning blue
and sunset’s not a metaphor
for something true

but images can e’er be found
to drink or sup
a little past beyond around
just giving up

… full of words and tales

i kissed you once out
here beside these trees, and
in soft regret your eyes were
turned inward, towards that part
of your life invisible to all but,
or even and, yourself

but the memory is not the
kiss, it is the look and the
feel of your face as i touched
it, brushing the hair back
off your forehead, appraising both
the moment and the look in
your eyes

but what is frozen often
melts, if enough time passes, and
only now do i recognize something
like fear mixed with your
longing – for while you felt something
for me, i was a strange, unpredictable
creature in your eyes, full of
words and tales

and the stories you knew
best always ended up being
scary ones: perhaps this was
a false setup to a frightening
ending – you weren’t sure

but i mistook that look for
a bad grade, and

dropped the class