Word Anger

When They Gather

2011-12-25T14:25:00.000-08:00

A flock blusters in,
out of the winter flurry,
amid the squawk and flutter
the crows find their gathers.

The men place bets
when they flock by the TV,
and the women drink
when they gather in the kitchen.

The TV-gather struts and blusters,
makes noise, flaps their wings,
throws food in the air,
and the women drink
when they gather in the kitchen.

Bull Under A Peach Tree

2011-12-04T09:51:00.000-08:00

By a dirt road an orchard’s remnant
stands in a pasture’s corner and produces
an old crop. Alluring pink blouses
on the breeze draw careless insects.

The blouses have long shed their fragrance
and dropped onto the moss bed,
leaving bulging-belly fruit basking in sun
until they too lose their grip.

I sit under the tree and watch a bull
glean the fallen fruit, the sweetest
with a tang of fermentation

Watching For Sasquatch

2011-11-20T10:00:00.000-08:00

Debbie is flagger for Great Basin Pipeline,
she puts up a sign that says SLOW
on one side and STOP on the other,

she spends the summer on Crane Mountain
making do with a tedious series
of brief and irritating relationships,

feeding the chipmunks, swatting insects,
watching for sasquatch.
Debbie spends the winter in Elko

at the Four-Way Casino,
feeding the slots, swatting cowboys,
making do with a tedious series

of brief and irritating relationships,
she puts up a sign that says SLOW
on one side and STOP on the other.

Debbie spends the night
watching for sasquatch.

Trouble in Mind

2011-11-13T15:23:00.000-08:00

I walk down the beach and find a flat spot
between the driftwood and tufts of beach grass,
a good place to escape the frictions and nagging
irritations of life, the placid ocean

is three shades of green today, and foggy grays
that reach up and merge with the sky, wave tails
slide up the beach, seven sanderling skitter along,
pick, picking at the sand like pestering three-year olds.

Four miles down the Pacific Plate is rubbing
the North American Plate the wrong way,
and the Juan de Fuca Plate is push, pushing.
North America has no place to go, no walk in the trees,

no tavern with a stool and a beer, no quiet beach
with sliding waves and picking sanderling.
North America double kicks Pacific in the ribs,
Pacific shoves along holding its prickly side,

making achy noises. North America jumps up
and Juan de Fuca slides twenty-three feet under,
flat on its face, North America stomps back down
on Juan de Fuca’s neck in violent rock-melting rage

that troubles the placid ocean and sends the sanderling flying off.
North America stomps around until the fury subsides,
the sanderling find new picking grounds, the ocean quiets,
North America and I settle back with trouble in our thinkers.

To The Quail On The Highway

2011-11-06T13:52:00.000-08:00

My sincere and deep apologies
to the quail on the Ravendale Highway
that scurried to safety in brushy shadows
on the right-hand side of the road

and then, for some inexplicable reason,
flew into the path of my truck,
and vanished in a burst of feathers.
I apologize to your children, your lover,

I apologize for not slowing, not stopping
to show respect for lost life.
Some day I too will fly
into a burst of feathers.

Don't Know Jack

2011-10-30T15:37:00.000-07:00

The Army took my Jack, my loving man,
sent him to Iraq to play in the sand,
now he sleeps on the rocks in Afghanistan.

We used to let our passions boil
now he sleeps on foreign soil
protecting my share of the foreign oil.

They used him up and sent him back
with his busted ass in a gunny sack,
I don't know Jack.

My Deal

2011-10-16T15:52:00.000-07:00

On a summer evening when the sun
has quit and the air is cooled, I enjoy a glass

of Port and stimulating conversation
with a thoughtful and well-informed raconteur,

a tricky exchange of views
with my intellectual equal,

a Port and challenging game of strategy
with a like-minded schemer.

Deep in the night ideas ricochet
around the room like insects

on the screen, no insect too small,
no fantasy too cosmic, I pour another glass,

get in touch with my inner fence post,
deal another solitaire.

The tricky exchange goes on till dawn.

Silent Ku

2011-08-14T11:33:00.000-07:00

the placid ocean –
tectonic plates
ponder a move

~

Westport Marina before dawn –
the scent of crab pots

~

between Forks and Kalaloch
I tune in the radio
and listen to the static

~

to Jennifer I say
never-ending love –
quiet skepticism

~

at three in the morning
I listen to the moon

~

I have beans with my rice
and break the silence

Painter Spring

2011-08-14T11:30:00.000-07:00

A generation of crickets hatch and swarm
across a road, across an alkali flat,
all in the same direction
even if not the same place,
crickets answer to a higher power
embedded in their every cell,
an inner voice that says, ‘not here’.

At Painter Spring there are no homeless,
every reptile and mammal finds a ledge
or tree to curl under, across the valley
a light snow falls, obscuring the salt flats,
crisp air replaces smells of juniper,
sage, alkali dust, it gets cold here,
some turn back to wait the winter in Stinkwater,
the rest pack up and head west in a swarm
that doesn’t make it across the playa
to the way station at Marjin Pass.

In a couple months the Russells bring a sled
and take the debris back to Hidden Canyon,
a wagon with a broken wheel, two buckets
and a shovel, a piano, five boots
with torn-out soles, blacksmith tools, a transit
and tripod, three ghosts and a poltergeist.

The sled glides over dry snow in starlight,
horses vent into the still air,
Brenda Russell blocks the cold with a blanket,
she can’t block the disquiet, not here.

There’s no room in Chicago, Sadie is turned out,
she gets cold, thinks ‘somewhere else or bust’,
packs her bag and buys a one-way
to Saint Jo, turns her back on the east
and faces the great western blank spaces.

Early next summer Sadie’s at Painter Spring
watching a mirage over Swasey Ridge.
She crosses the playa, then Marjin Pass,
gets stuck in Boyd for a decade
before she catches the next swarm.

Get By Legal

2011-08-08T15:42:00.000-07:00

I learn to get by legal with math and writing
and art, I leave school with no hat,
no hammer, I get work at the mill,

factory, the plant, mine, warehouse,
I line up uniform with the other schmucks,
I get along because I fix things,

my special skill is sucking up,
they pay what I’m worth, I get by legal.
Buddha even cares about one like me.

Three Windows and a Door

2011-08-07T18:00:00.001-07:00

My cabin has three windows and a door,
it’s easier to look out than get out.

There’s no bookshelf in my cabin,
I never learned to read, I don’t know

Lawrence of Arabia, don’t share
the obsession of Ahab, never see

fantasy through the looking glass.
I never learned to read but I learned to see,

I see the flaws in my cabin space,
understand the plants in the garden,

I know the long-legged birds will return,
I know the door, and my dreams.

I Know

2011-08-01T14:58:00.000-07:00

If you can be my girlfriend
then I’m your boyfriend and I know
what you like to do
on a walk to Midway Beach,

I get it that you won’t use
the outhouse at John’s Landing,
I know your order
at Westport’s Thai restaurant,

and I know your fragrance.
If you can be my girlfriend
then you know what I like
for lunch, the curve of my hand,

my claim that time is an illusion,
what I’ll say to the waitress
at Westport’s Thai restaurant,
you understand what the allegations are

and it’s a big misunderstanding
you know I can explain.

Pour Joe Coffee Shop

2011-07-31T14:57:00.000-07:00

A book at the coffee bar is open
to the ‘page of the day’, it’s yellowed
from facing the window
ever since gin was served in teacups.

I look over the words
and string sense together,
I get the string of pelicans outside
skimming the melancholy between breakers.

A purple woman with an aggressive figure
drops two copies of a book on the bar,
“Do you like to read?” she asks.
I can’t tell her I don’t know.

Reading a page isn’t like reading
a purple storm thundering over the ridge,
get ready.

I read the grounds in my cup’s pit,
they tell me, “I read, I guess I like it.
Get ready.“

Format

2011-07-18T13:23:00.000-07:00

Carol leaves fresh poems
on the kitchen table, four line stanzas,
left aligned, regular spacing,
a line of portholes to her center.

With morning tea I peak in, glimpse
a jade moon in the space between stars
lighting the fresh plum blossoms,
purple spice escapes the garden

on a dapple gray we call Snow Ghost.
In late fall when the weather changes
Carol makes innocent adjustments,
five line stanzas, then eight, then nineteen,

nineteen? What does that mean?
She scatters words across the page
in ways I can’t track, the word on the right
doesn't line up with the three in the middle

that don't see the one floating
along the left margin, my dyslexic sight
collects the words and assembles a window
to a black moon. The autistic part of my brain

finds meaning, frustration and anger
not seen before, I won't have her back,
I won't have that hate in my house.

Burnt-Sienna Headscarf

2011-07-17T07:10:00.000-07:00

A hen Ruddy Duck cannot resist
a burnt-sienna head with white cheeks
and blue bill, the small fish

that just vanished cannot refuse
the Angler Fish’s flaunted lure,
the spider that took up residence

on my desk cannot ignore
the quiver streaming through its web,
I cannot refuse Brenda Webster’s allure,

white cheeks under a burnt-sienna headscarf,
dark blue eyes invite my naive core
to a windowless cabin to learn my fortune,

lightening flickers above the cypress,
in candlelight the sulfuric incense
wards off dark flying things,

on the woodstove pine-tar and garlic fumes
bubble from a blackened pot
and wrap my head, in the murky

the burnt-sienna headscarf and dark blue eyes
probe my naiveté, skeletal fingers
wrap me, with a quiver I pass into the black.

The Woods

2011-07-09T18:04:00.000-07:00

I go to the woods, the Big Woods, the Dismal Swamp,
the Dark Forest, haunt of the Swamp Dog,
black flies, carnivorous plants, pit vipers,

Cyprus Black Bats, the crazy Spanish witch
Brenda Webster from Bristol who set her wicked children
on fire, but couldn’t kill them, they roam the swamps

in the night with their clothes aflame. I go to the woods
for the fragrance of the hallucinogenic
Ghost-dream Orchid, a canoe comes into view,

she says her name is Brenda, a dog howls,
there’s a burst of flame in the swamp.
I go to the woods.

Murdock Valley

2011-07-06T18:31:00.000-07:00

Relentless sun heats sage until a swirl
of hot air goes up the drain in a dust devil.

A vulture stops flying and glides around
the plume, tasting flavors from the valley floor,

a jackrabbit, four-wing saltbush,
a dried out deer carcass, the algae at Fish Springs,

a ranch hand wrapped in Irish Spring
riding a nasty old mule. The vulture grips

the rising heat and swirls into upper layers
where flavors ferment and mature,

where vultures have special dreams,
I ride a nasty old mule to Murdock Ranch

and give Sadie a taste of Irish Spring.
“You never,” she says, “cease to amaze.”

Crater Ku

2011-07-03T13:06:00.000-07:00

Jennifer says
do you still
love me

~

whitewater cascades
around rocks and eddies –
black hole

~

Diamond Craters west of Crane –
Rock Wren call’s in and out

~

six black holes
around the table –
chug, guzzle, munch

~

ocean craters
swallow whitecaps,
surfboards spit out

~

I watch Jennifer
walk out –
door latch clicks

The Dance

2011-06-27T12:17:00.000-07:00

The wind goes nasty, enters a cottonwood tree
and swings the branches around, casts off leaves,
naked branches flog the ripple air.

Nasty moves into the desert
and flips a swallow around on a feather tip spin,
the swallow, leaves and bugs join a dust devil

prancing through the sage. Nasty finds
a porch swing at an old ranch,
enters the night-light and swirls the moths

and mayflies around and out into the air
to connect with the night song.
Nasty passes to a hummingbird and me,

the hummer and I dance in the night-light
with the moths and the mayflies.

Seven Sins

2011-06-26T10:17:00.000-07:00

In school I learn details on the sins
that come with penalty, delightful failings
that ooze across the sidewalk, stick to shoes,
wrongdoings for a dark night after moonlight
creeps out of the garden. After school
I learn about lapses without a price tag
with friends in an empty lot, an old Buick,
a booth in the back of Sugar Dan’s.

I get wicked practice and grow
into a sinful authority,
I’m good when I need to, I don’t throw stones.
Jennifer strolls into Sugar Dan’s,
gives me a sideways look and a wink,
I watch her swing and sway, the moon comes out,
she teaches me failings I never knew,
we bury evil out in the garden.

Blue River

2011-06-20T18:47:00.001-07:00

Joan is Rock and Roll promenading
down the road head high,
loud and proud. I'm Ragtime,
a little off the beat, I shuffle

a little out of time, I leave space
that Joan fills with accented rubble.
Joan peppers the beat with stress,
I shift to a different rhythm.

Crossing the stream I step between
the rocks, I need liner notes
to get the lyrics. Drums, trumpets
and Joan head the parade

off the old stone bridge, splash
deeper water, lead the Blue River
into an unruly cascade,
and the river never returns.

Windy Ku

2011-06-19T19:03:00.000-07:00

it seems windier than it is
but you'll find that it isn't

~

dust devils
skip thru sage –
twenty-six swallows

~

all night the wind
knocks out power –
still dawn

~

at Damon Head three gulls
ride an updraft –
rough water on the bar

~

a plastic bag
on a narrow dirt road –
relentless wind

~

it’s not always this windy
sometimes there’s more

The Troubles

2011-05-24T11:29:00.000-07:00

Earthquakes rumble through Japan,
artillery rumbles through Libya,
freight trains rumble through town
with supplies essential
to the Wal-Mart parade.

Jets scream over Libya,
afghans scream over corpses,
you scream,
I scream,
we all scream,
for ice cream.

Corporations subsidize Congress
with excessive profits,
Congress subsidizes corporations
with tax loopholes,
I subsidize a wide screen TV
with thirty-six easy payments.

China has a right
to manage internal affairs,
the Governor has a right
to an affair,
I make a right
on Pioneer and go three blocks
to lunch at Savory Faire.

In Wisconsin
labor protests the budget,
In Egypt
students protest the government,
on the wide screen TV
I protest the noise
that keeps me awake.

Los Arcos

2011-03-27T11:46:00.000-07:00

to the waitress at Los Arcos, Hoquiam

I come in through the arch
and you come out of the kitchen,
we're two plants setting root,

I’m looking for earth, you're
looking for water. Tendrils reach
out in Victorian dance,

probing with no touching, I'm looking
for lunch, you're looking for a tip,
we negotiate a well-worn path

through a played out garden.
Tendrils contract, roots withdraw,
I go out through the arch,

you go back into the kitchen,
I'm looking for earth,
you're looking for water.

Living High

2011-03-27T11:36:00.000-07:00

The winter rain beats a drum
roll on the window pane
into the night, I'm inside living high

with a hot buttered rum, listening to Igor
Kipness play Bach's 'Partita
Number Five in G Major',

on the computer I score thirty-one
thousand with seven purple squares
in a row, Igor finishes

and I switch to hot port
and 'Pioneers of the Jazz Guitar',
I don't need Jennifer to live high.

Fog

2011-03-21T19:27:00.000-07:00

Sadie is fog sifting through
memory trees, dripping like tears
from cedar boughs.

A coastal trail weaves
like a dipper's song
through sword ferns and moss

covered logs. On a chill Tuesday
Sadie walks the trail north
to Third Rock and faces

lurking sharps,
her ghost uncouples
and enters the rain forest shadows.

Grumbling surf swallows footfalls
and bird calls,
Sadie drifting through the trees.

Waiting

2011-03-20T20:42:00.000-07:00

protest groups united in their opposition, security forces … clear hundreds of anti-government demonstrators

A storm is coming across the desert,
the desiccated gather in small groups,
put their eyes down and walk
into the gritty wind.

The desiccated follow
the common sense
that inspires mystics,
a dog at their heels.

The desiccated story is hidden
behind a mask, smoke and dust,
it ends beaten into the hard sand,
spirits delivered to the desert people.

I travel ahead to see
how the story ends,
but I can't come back,
I wait for you to catch up.

Over and Over

2011-03-14T18:33:00.000-07:00

insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results

I go crazy in the morning,
what is wrong with that woman,
I get up early and lay out her clothes,
and she puts on something else,

I fix her tea, put cream cheese
on a toasted bagel, she makes coffee
and puts on orange marmalade,
it's like this every time,

I wait in the kitchen, she turns up the radio
and gets ready in the bathroom,
I tell her to call when she gets to work
and she says "bye sweetie" to the cat

as she goes out the door,
it will be different tomorrow.

Six Red Cows

2011-03-08T20:15:00.000-08:00

1.
Six red cows in the pasture,
heads down in tall grass,
food factories, fodder vacs.

Old Bill leans and thinks
on the kids the pasture fed
and clothed, three days in Reno.

Now's the time to listen,
quit fighting thistles,
ground squirrels and ticks.

2.
Six red cows in the pasture,
heads down, happy
with the life they've built.

They don't clean the barn,
don't pay the bills,
calves grow fast.

There's a cow rumor now
that a new bull's coming,
and nobody dies of old age.

3.
The pasture gets ready
for the next go round,
a sage thrasher sings up.

The War between the Sexes

2010-11-15T21:34:00.000-08:00

Women are sensitive,
the three most used words
are 'I love you',
the four most used are
'it's all your fault',
men are mechanical,
why can't you put the seat down?

Men solve problems,
find solutions,
repair the dish washer
without directions,
drive around,
why can't you just ask?

Your children are fighting,
the dog wants out,
what happened
to my car?
there was a bottle of wine
on the shelf.

Echo Ku

2010-11-15T10:06:00.001-08:00

the full moon
at twilight –
rhymes with orange

~

spring desire
reflects
in summer eyes

~

plum blossoms
fall
into autumn wine

~

two blackbirds
in the market
picking, picking

Dixie Valley Road

2010-10-11T15:53:00.000-07:00

A green and white sign marks
the road north through Dixie Valley,
it starts out paved, reduces to gravel

then a dirt track along a section fence,
it regains gravel in the switchbacks
over the pass, than back to asphalt,

and sneaks into the back side of Winnemucca.
I'm not that road, I start out dirt,
end up dirt, it's the middle part,

the switchbacks, that are paved,
decorated with paint stripes and road signs,
it's the switchbacks that sneak into the back side.

Between the Lines

2010-10-04T15:37:00.000-07:00

Brecker's Grocery gets their first
shopping cart and learns it doesn't roll
across the gravel parking lot
with carefree 'catalog' smiles.

Brecker paves the lot,
recruits Shorty George and Lucky Dan
to get special paint and put stripes
and arrows on the new asphalt.

Shorty and Lucky work out a traffic pattern,
paint a zebra's profusion of stripes,
straight for parking, curved for the traffic.
Lucky is painting the last 'enter' arrow
when the special paint runs out.

Shorty and Lucky still need to paint
the 'exit' arrows so they jump
into Shorty's truck and head for Princess Paints,
and Willie's Tavern.

Brecker's customers comply with the 'enter'
arrows, follow the curved lines,
park between the straight,
but they don't find 'exit' arrows,
and the parking lot is jammed
with a bewilderment of shoppers.

Slow Howard pulls down his hat
and sleeps, Small Annie finishes off
the ice cream before it melts, Jersey Belle
would never enter a place like Willie's,
she sends Uncle Jimmy down to get
Shorty George and Lucky Dan back in line.

Monument Ku

2010-10-03T20:27:00.000-07:00

in the rain forest
sunlight drips –
a gnawed pinecone

~

on the kitchen table
an empty bottle –
the smell of morning fog

~

on a light pole
an empty nest –
winter winds

~

blackened bronze
on a pedestal –
three recruits

Next Life

2010-09-05T19:50:00.001-07:00

1.
The gravel trail is level but frailty comes
quickly on a slow walk
around Sylvia Lake, I rest on a bench

between two old cedars, memory dies
into fog over the lake.
How did I get here? The dream fades

to dust, I reincarnate, recycle,
rebear affliction, this is the next life
again, a stepping stone.

2.
I'm encumbered with bristly parasites,
vermin and pests happily survive
on essential body fluids cycling
through my organs. I manage the offenders,

send them on to a better existence,
I'm the aggressive mortician with traps and toxins,
stalking the droning, buzzy flies.
Squashed, they come back as graceful swallows

ingesting droning, buzzy flies.
Crumpled spiders are wrens in the next life
crumpling spiders. I think on Sedge Baker
coming back as a paving stone.

Choice Ku

2010-09-04T19:48:00.000-07:00

from a small pallet
I write this and that
or that and this

~

the price of a bottle of wine
feeds me for a day,
or sleeps away the small ache

~

November winds blow
soft rain with a hard edge
or not

~

the perfect idleness
of watching twilight gather –
a plover calls

~

a good place
to dump the body –
thumple

Reflections

2010-08-30T14:45:00.000-07:00

Slow Howard watches the noon news,
the news breaks, the gutter commercial
comes on, to pass the time
Howard tries his fast draw, he forgot
the round in chamber, a magnum load

hurls a three-fifty-seven slug
at the moron flogging the dangers
of climbing a ladder. Acrid fog clears,
Howard lies back in his recliner as usual,
it's always been this way.

An early fog chills Sylvia Lake,
an old cottonwood leans too far
over the water, falls on its reflection,
lies in the water like nothing happened,
it's always been this way.

Empty Ku

2010-08-29T09:10:00.000-07:00

a small woodpecker
on a sunflower head
finds the last one

~

I tell Joan
what's on my mind,
nothing comes out of something

~

below the fog
on Sylvia Lake
an otter in quietude

~

at Bottle Beach
between the falcon
and the sandpiper

~

a full moon
at 3 a.m. –
an empty bed

Mouly Knuts

2010-08-23T21:09:00.000-07:00

Stormy days I work at the hardware
selling special tools, extra parts,
miracle goo. Troubly nights I write
the glassware tumbling out of my thinker.

Tonight Cave Sadie and Slow Jones
tumble out, I fabricate Mouly Knuts
and put them in front of the old bank
on Cracker and Main.

I'm walking them to the noodle shop on Cracker
when the radio lady reads a news story
about Mouly Knuts. It's in Nevada,
I'm compelled to drive over for a look-see.

I gas the truck, put my hat on the front seat,
over the .357 revolver,
drive up Main from the south,
park in front of the old bank.

I step out of the truck and reach
for my hat, the revolver slides,
I grab for it and shoot a hole
through the passenger door.

The bullet puts a crack in the bank window,
a crack in the bank window sets off the alarm.
Sheriff Howard is a big man.
Long Sue promenades up,

gives me a wink and a grin,
"Sheriff, I just don't know
what would have become of me
if he hadn't scared that thing off,

he's a gen-u-ine hero.”
I walk Long Sue down Cracker
to the noodle shop and we sit
with Cave Sadie and Slow Jones.

Tomorrow I'll pick up glass at the hardware
and fix the bank's window.

Waving Goodbye

2010-08-16T13:39:00.000-07:00

In my early days when I was fit
I'd chase a skirt or two,
I chased Claire's up a mountain,
I chased Becky's on a beach,
I chased the Simpson twins through the zoo,
now I've got the more women
than I can satisfy in a lifetime blues.

I promised Jane a house, Mary a car,
I promised Claire I'd be forever true,
I promised Becky I'd get a job or two,
now I've got the more women with promises
than I can keep in a lifetime blues.

I sit in the tavern sipping a brew,
in walks Mary and Claire,
and the twins are with them too,
Becky points, Jane laughs,
they know each other pretty well
and they're having a good time too,
now I've got the too many women
sitting at a table waving goodbye blues.

Oubliette Ku

2010-06-13T16:52:00.000-07:00

(a dungeon made so that the only way in or out is a trap door at the top)

Dismal Swamp –
a Pitcher Plant buzzes
inside and out

~

in a nest
a falcon shifts –
chicks discover sky

~

a gopher hole
in the meadow grass –
a hawk perches

~

this brain hole
I dig

Stealing

2010-06-08T00:34:00.000-07:00

If you see me stealing don't tell on me,
I'm just stealing a memory,
a venture in my teenage years
down Morgan Alley living the blues.

The night is chill, the air is mist,
the streetlight wears a buggy disk,
Sadie has a bottle of wine,
she's looking for a state of mind.

We look in the streets of Susanville,
we look in the bars of Chimney Rock.

If you see me stealing don't tell on me,
I'm just stealing a quick look-see
at Sadie sitting in a rocking chair
moon watching, thinking attitude.

Deep shadows hang in the trees,
I'm down Morgan Alley stealing the blues.

Icarus Ku

2010-06-05T20:54:00.000-07:00

never thinking
so low before,
fire on the Horizon

~

common sense fritters away,
ancient sunlight escapes
in a sea of fire

~

disgrace sticks like oil,
a cash dispersant sprays

~

a grave reach
brings death to life

~

concentration
on oil
in the bayou

~

a laughing gull
plunges
in a black sea

Long Handles

2010-03-18T19:43:00.000-07:00

Hey there Sven, it sure smells like snow,
and it's your turn to milk the cows,
ya might want to sleep in the barn tonight.

No now Einar, it's your turn
to sleep in the barn,
if I get snowed in then you
can take my turn milking the cows.

Maybe now Sven, you should have your Lena
sleep in the barn with me,
you always have her do your milking anyway.

Hey Einar, now there's an idea.

Make sure she wears her long handles though,
last time she was frigid ya know.

Oh now Einar, long handles fix that?
I didn't know.

Ranch Hand

2010-03-01T14:29:00.000-08:00

I live on the range where coyote hoots,
I have a hammer, a horse and a pair of boots,
I don't feed the hammer, don’t polish the horse,
and I don't wear my boots indoors.

At the end of day the sun goes down,
Cave Sadie comes hanging around
with a pot of beans and a bucket of beer,
I don’t care if you leave me here.

At dark the River-of-Stars runs high,
hammers through the lonesome sky.

Footprints

2010-02-08T13:01:00.001-08:00

Jimmy Johnson puts tracks
on a CD, Oswald and Baxter
walk their wagon across the western desert,

put tracks outside the Tule Spring corral,
and I raise a plume of dust
on the track from Wash to Creeper.

When the dust settles Oswald and Baxter
are as misplaced to history as a gull
after the tide washes droppings

off the beach, as I am
when mizzle washes footprints in the ally
behind the noodle shop.

In the shop's dim light
Atsko follows Johnson's tracks
through the mid nineteen-forties.

She sees me coming through the door,
calls my usual order to the kitchen,
and goes back to Jimmy.

Bristol Point

2010-02-01T01:22:00.000-08:00

I drive the long cut around the nose
of Bristol Point, gravity pulls me
to the overlook, traffic passes behind,
down into the switchbacks.

From the overlook I see a fishing boat,
lights in Rubble Beach hazed by fog,
an ocean hiding it's purpose.
Behind me a fog-muffled crack and rumble

of rockslide, and Bristol Point closes
the switchbacks, heals the long cut,
covers the scar. Downhill traffic stops,
some U-turn and head back to Lincoln City.

Flashing lights weave into the switchbacks,
roadside talkers cluster and share melancholy.
Another crack and rumble, and rocks tumble
with the gleeful abandon of a child,

free for the first time in a million years.
Bristol Point sticks its nose in the air
and gravity pulls on the overlook.

Wing Ku

2010-01-30T19:04:00.000-08:00

flight is problematic –
my feathers
don't have wings

~

over Sylvia Lake
a migrating goose
waves goodbye

~

a gray wing
sheds wet feathers –
smells like snow

~

in my old rocker
I wonder how I got here –
a black wing wraps around

Salad Bowl

2010-01-25T08:58:00.000-08:00

Shorty George inherits a wooden bowl,
his double-great grandmother painted
an ancient Norwegian design inside and out.

Shorty gets a grinder, takes it down
to raw wood inside and out,
and rubs in mineral oil.

Now, he says,
I have a proper salad bowl,
inside and out.

Susan

2010-01-17T19:22:00.001-08:00

A jade moon lights the kitchen,
Susan sips tea and studies space
and time through the window,
the old plum tree reveals a path

to the next dimension. Susan drifts
through the back gate, follows the fence
line to the abandoned irrigation ditch.
The ditch follows the slope to the wooden bridge

on Jackson Road, Susan ducks under the bridge
and feels her way over the gravel
to the other side. Ahead in the darkness
is a galaxy of lights, the chill air thins,

Susan feels light on her feet and begins to float
ahead, she reaches out, her hand is cold,
frost is in her fingers, she digs in the gravel
and pulls herself back, scurries back

under the bridge to the safety of the ditch.
Susan warms her fingers, stumbles back
down the irrigation ditch, through the back gate,
falls into the kitchen cat.

Susan sits on the floor, sips tea,
and avoids the jade moon.

Wet Snow

2010-01-14T00:07:00.000-08:00

Mitsuyoshi Tosa’s
Bamboos Under Snow,
leafy stems hunched

under wet, sticky pillows.
My garden
has only evergreens.

Cedar Fence Post

2010-01-04T11:33:00.000-08:00

Barbed wire hangs
on the common sense
of a cedar fence post

and a ranch hand
with fencing pliers
in his pocket.

A Still Rocker

2009-12-28T13:39:00.001-08:00

Walking to the kitchen I notice
a large part of old age
is trouble moving, my knee

remembers a rock
that didn't have trouble moving,
and the ankle reminds me

of a jump gone bad
in a crunching sound,
and my hair hurts

when I change my mind,
so I sit in a still rocker
and rethink an ancient myth.

Wander Ku

2009-12-27T16:21:00.000-08:00

beach grass
climbs a windy dune –
looks for a ride

~

a dusky goose
leaves in the morning
to find one of his own

~

the jade moon
wanders all night
through the garden

~

summer birds leave me
with the winter winds

Picking the Bones

2009-12-21T16:55:00.001-08:00

Ancient lizards leave their mark
on the badlands, a trail of prints,
scattered remains, an impression.

Lizard groupies with picks
and canvas hats follow the tracks,
pick the bones, exhibit icons

in a great hall where PhD's gather
with tweed jackets and stem-glasses
full of sixty-five dollars a bottle.

In the badlands the groupies break
for lunch, bring out the beer
and barbeque chicken, three vultures circle.

The groupies pick the bones,
scatter remains, leave their mark,
and the vultures leave a lizard impression.

Teaching Jessie to Drive

2009-12-13T23:43:00.000-08:00

Sadie says I can't do anything
with that girl, she listens only
to do the different, and that's why
we're scattering gravel down Jackson Road.

I watch Poor Riley's horses glide
down the fence line and Jessie apologizes
for rattling the potholes hard in Butler Wash.
Jessie turns onto the dry lake

and cuts donuts, we laugh at the dust,
then hike up Parker Ridge and watch the sunset
reflections change on Stillwater Creek.
On the way back I pick up groceries

and a bottle of wine,
Jessie learns cooking from her mom,
she takes time making dinner,
and we take time eating.

The candle burns down, reflections change
on the bottle, Jessie says,
"do I have to go home now?"

Web Ku

2009-12-13T11:20:00.001-08:00

a single strand
tickles my cheek –
whither the spider

~

a beach grass tangle
gathers the wind –
a shorebird in and out

~

the trail is paved
with autumn leaves
in sunset colors

~

a feather web enfolds
the black crow

Double Rainbow

2009-12-07T10:50:00.000-08:00

Clear skies dry the sage for months
then a rain-cloud parks over Dixie Valley,
a double rainbow arcs over the highway
at the Austin Hillclimb, it's too much

of a good thing, thirteen cars get lost
in the crowd and need a ride home.
Six days of rain fills
the Little Milligan and Shorty George

loses his cabin to a slurry,
Sadie gives him a ride home,
it's too much of a good thing.
Clear skies dry the sage for months,

in the moonlight Shorty George thinks
on a rain cloud over Dixie Valley,
in the morning he packs up and rides
Brandy and Scooter to Windy Ridge

and paints a double rainbow
on the face of Crescent Rock,
he rides west to Carson Meadows
and gets lost in the crowd.

Lighthouse Ku

2009-12-06T11:15:00.001-08:00

the Thai waitress
shows the way –
stir-fry sizzles

~

on the rocks
above the beach
a bottle of wine

~

an icy fog
hides the dawn –
winter wren sings

~

moon lights the path
up Fry Canyon –
bat shadows

~

on the horizon
a blinking light –
breakers crash

Migration Ku

2009-11-29T17:14:00.000-08:00

clouds linger
on Pistol Ridge –
rain dots the Elwah

~

two old frogs
cross the street
to Charlie's Tavern

~

a sunlight shard
crosses the kitchen
with the old cat

~

a plum blossom
catches a gusty –
a delicate scent scatters

~

a plume of dust
on Stinkingwater Desert –
wheels and feet

yip ah-oo

2009-11-23T18:51:00.001-08:00

I had a girl, we didn't get along
on a winter night I sing coyote's song
yip ah-oo yip yip oo-ah-oo

I had a boss who pushed me around
I lost that job when I burned it down
yip ah-oo yip yip oo-ah-oo

I put a fifty in a dancer's thong
hi there honey where ya been so long
yip ah-oo yip yip oo-ah-oo

I crashed a party in a frilly gown
a church full of prigs ran me out of town
yip ah-oo yip yip oo-ah-oo

I went back east in a gunnysack
when I find my way I'm coming back
yip ah-oo yip yip oo-ah-oo

NEC Ku (6)

2009-11-16T12:29:00.000-08:00

(Not Elsewhere Classified)

standing rocks at Ruby Beach
are ragged
as a crow's nest

~

after rainfall
water looks
for a low spot

~

twilight
and the breeze
fly together

~

She said don't have an accident –
just another pointless road sign.

~

I was born just now,
I hope to make more of it
than last time.

~

The truck stuck in the mud
to see if I could get it out,
it's kind of an old truck thing.

~

half of them
are shadows

Jug of Wine

2009-11-02T15:03:00.001-08:00

My old body parts get attacked
by germs, hoards of shrieking barbarians
find an opening, a weak spot,

and stream in like an icy river.
Body parts are provoked to fight off
the miniature barbarians,

but they can't fight a jug of wine.
The warm fog slips in through the front door
and settles in around my thinker,

muscles weaken, vision fades,
the jug takes a willing victim every time,
and the barbarians wait outside.

Diversions

2009-10-26T11:04:00.000-07:00

Driving through Nevada I think on investing
in traffic cones, left lane ends, prepare to stop.
It's hard to find a bookstore, none in Fallon,
the one in Elko doesn't have a poetry section,

and there are no Navajo bookstores
on the reservation. Ruby and Mike
storm into the bookstore in Cedar City,
he's the core, the center that holds the system

together, she's the wind swirling around
grabbing stories off the shelf. I drive west
to my hermitage on the coast,
where I'm not thinking of someplace else,

where I don't close the door, where a noise
at two in the morning doesn't make me think
of zombie-body-snatchers, where Linda's fresh
mixes with my marine layer.

When I want poetry on the reservation
I find Mary Littletree, and try to not get diverted.

Conquer Ku

2009-10-18T10:52:00.001-07:00

in the garden
battleground –
plum blossoms

~

a mosquito
offends my hide –
SPLAT

~

rolling waves
ride a winter storm
over the breakwater

~

a morning of icy fog –
a sunlight splinter enters
the kitchen window

~

through the long night
the neighbor dog
whimpering

Plums

2009-10-12T09:58:00.001-07:00

In spring's first warm days
I walk the plum orchard
and get to know the blossoms and scents.
In the first days of autumn
I gather plums for wine.

Barbarians and winter winds
are at the western wall, I hear the trumpets
and smell the dust cloud.
The plum wine brings back a spring walk
and the long faded blossoms.

The plum trees are old, three are left,
the barbarians cut one for firewood,
I grieve for the blossoms.

Talisman Ku

2009-10-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

the high desert
hangs a rain tail
from a cloud

~

Destruction Island
protects Ruby Beach
from wayward sailors

~

for luck I hang
a full moon
over the garden

~

a vulture circles
seven times
before landing

~

a sealion wears
fishing gear
around his neck

Pungent Nights

2009-09-06T23:02:00.001-07:00

Wildflowers cascade down Horse-Heaven Hill
like a showy mudslide, they pile up at the bottom,
become the same color, fragrances merge
to the pungency of ensilage, the tang of beer.

A gaggle of children run and tumble
down, pile up at the bottom,
in time they become the same color,
fragrances merge in the tang of beer.

The sun sets and the 'River of Stars' tumbles
across the sky like a galaxy of naïve
rushing to the end of innocence,
and the night has a pungent aroma.

Romance Ku

2009-09-05T18:30:00.001-07:00

wren loves
crunching spiders –
nest chirps

~

two hawks' courtship dive
talon to talon –
gopher scurries

~

gopher collects grass
for the bed chamber –
hawk bides time

~

plum blossom competes
for busy pimps

~

three cranes display
over one nest

~

the sun never sees shadows
walk the moonlit garden –
never knows what happens

Don't Blink

2009-09-02T11:38:00.001-07:00

I have a casual relation to death,
I make offhand references
to my eventual demise,
meeting the grim reaper,

I tempt the end of life on desert trails,
the end looks the other way
and I find a trickling spring,
a little shade, a place to rest my feet.

Death is never so scary as when it looks
straight in your face and doesn't blink,
a falcon that doesn't turn away,
a storm walking across the high desert

on lightening spikes, and this morning
a dark disease with a death grip,
a chest with a silent heart.
I lie still in bed, and stare back.

Driftwood

2009-08-31T09:21:00.001-07:00

The rain hasn't started yet,
flickering neon down the street
lights up the bottom of the fog,
lights up the puddles on the sidewalk.

At Mahli's Hall the fast music ends,
a person of pleasant curves finds a window sill,
perches like a piece of seductive driftwood,
weasel eyes dance about

like flames on kindling.
I leave the driftwood behind
and follow the music out into the mizzle,
a cat retreats into the bushes,

the past stretches down the street
in front of me and yawns.
Two crows are on the street,
we each stand in our own pool of shadow

and pull on the tide of melancholy.
Flickering neon raindrops fall,
pleasant curves cross the sill
and walk through the puddles.

It's many-troubles day, the little spiders
on my eyelids keep me awake,
and the driftwood goes out with the tide.

Bookshelf

2009-08-27T09:10:00.001-07:00

An idea is wrapped in words and laid to rest
on a page, borrowed thinking in a hardcover coffin,
a shelf is the cemetery, it sags under the weight.
A skirmish line of irregulars stands on the cemetery,

shoulder to shoulder like a row of tombstones,
pavers waiting to line a path of thought.
A small pile is on the table, it's a good place
to dump a body waiting interment, rest in peace.

Spirits of borrowed thinking hang around the cemetery,
roam the night and look for space in my empty thinker,
look for new relationships. Spirits drift
in the rumbling darkness and inhabit dreams,

the ones I can't quite recall in the morning
when the coffee plows out last nights wine.

One Short

2009-08-23T20:36:00.001-07:00

Scarcely after sunrise, six jays
at the feeder make gluttony noises,
I put out one more peanut
for the jay that comes late,
he never shows up.

My best ideas come in the night
when I have imperfect memory,
or the middle of dinner
when I'm short on time.

A random meeting
does not a relationship make,
and the other way around,
a relationship is not random.

Normal-John has shingles,
not enough nails, too much roof,
a wind comes up,
rain changes all the smells.

Bottle Beach has too much tide
or too much beach,
and never enough shorebirds
for the falcon.

Karen-Two-Kids
puts out cheese and crackers,
I need one more cheese,
she needs a cracker.

I realize the ultimate answer
just before a moose
breaks through the trees
and changes the question.

And,
at the end of the kiss,
I need one more day.

Consent Ku

2009-08-23T07:35:00.000-07:00

the garbage man
is a percussionist –
sleep comes and goes

~

at noon the fog lifts
over Moon Island –
the mountains are glorious

~

after seven years
the neighbor dog lets me pass –
old man's tired bark

~

old feelings trouble my thinker
a jug of wine lets me sleep

~

jays squabble at jays
over the sunflower seeds –
chickadees come and go

Sarah

2009-08-17T09:02:00.001-07:00

Sarah suffers curiosity disorder,
she wants to know frogs, rust, mushrooms,
she wants to know autism
so she disengages, thinks herself

into detachment, talks to herself,
out loud at first, then she only thinks
about a world of rust colored frogs
sitting on mushrooms she wants to inhabit.

Sarah loses track, she looks to the spy
in the vacuum cleaner, stops looking to people,
she rides a smoky horse into the next room,
the horse doesn't know the way back.

In the chill black of dawn,
under the kindness of a rain shower,
Sarah makes her own parade,
connects with a crow troubled by Tourette's,

appreciates that speed doesn't make light,
she speaks in sharp rocks that draw blood.
Sarah suffers curiosity disorder,
a flower with edges.

Woods Ku

2009-08-16T07:25:00.001-07:00

a short walk goes long –
the Big Woods
swallows sound

~

sixteen trees
float down the Wishkah –
woodcutters pause for beer

~

stagnant water
satisfies the Dismal Swamp –
earth and air

~

a Moon Island beer party
back in the trees –
the morning fog chills

~

a woodpecker on a high perch
claims a stand of old wood

~

there's a stand of trees
up behind the Wilson place –
Alice cries out twice

South-Valley

2009-08-13T08:05:00.001-07:00

Bill McKenzie's double-great grandfather
told migrants to take this twisted way
to get from Trout to Orchard, and that made
a dirt road. One section is a gravel bed

but the rest is good only when it's frozen
rock hard, most of the time it's sucking mud,
or alkali powder that hangs in the August air.
The county spread the gravel up and down

the twisted to make it 'all-weather', which fixed
the sucking, but not the alkali dust.
The state paved the last 40 miles
when they tied in highway ninety-five,

then they put the new highway up north
where the pronghorn herd-up for migration,
the new strips of pavement and wire fence
cut the valley in half. Most people

on the twisted made a wrong turn,
would be happy with a flat spot to park
and an outhouse. The wrong-turns hear
engine noises, smells like burning hair,

they're too uneasy to think what it was like
for wagon drivers walking beside the smell
of hot horse, watching lean thighs
roll and sway, eating the dust.

Up ahead, in the cool between junipers,
McKenzie's girls are waiting.

Kurtz Cove

2009-08-10T10:53:00.001-07:00

A boy waits on the beach, for a small fee
he'll tell about the Sandra Bea,
how a November storm comes up
on a high tide, the wind is blowing

out of the east and there's lightening everywhere,
she loses power and she's wrecked right here
by this piece of driftwood,
forty-five years later she starts to leak

oil so they spend two summers digging
out the hull, hauling off tons of sand,
she came in stern-first at midnight,
and there was a full moon.

I speculate it must have been terrifying
for the crew and passengers, the people on shore
were surely desperate and miserable,
the rescuers surely felt helpless.

No, he says, she was being towed to Westport
for repairs and the cable snapped,
there was no one on board.

For a small fee I sit on a piece of driftwood
where the Sandra Bea used to be
and watch loons dive in reflections on the cove.

Ocean Ku

2009-08-09T11:03:00.001-07:00

breakers wash the sand
where ocean begins –
shorebirds skitter

~

the remnants of a storm
blow in off the ocean –
a rainbow of kites

~

a migrating flock
follows the surf line –
beach grass waves

~

breakers crash
against the jetty –
a spray of surfbirds

~

twenty-five pelicans
in a willow line –
reflections on the waves

~

the ocean ends
where fog begins –
thought horizon

The Campbell House

2009-08-03T16:31:00.001-07:00

Families journey like creeks, winding a path
between the rocks and trees,
unlucky creeks pour into a rotting stinking swamp,
and rot themselves into a stink.

The old Campbell House at the edge of town
drives the Campbells nuts with the creaks,
drips, and flickers. They spend their fortune
on remodels, repairs, Prozac,

her body is found in the basement,
he lives with a guardian, the kids
drop out of school,
charges are pending.

The two Foster kids are born at the house,
they are disabled by the mold,
formaldehyde, shrieks in the night
nippy shadows in the basement.

Old Man Rawlings is already peculiar,
he stops the electricity so it won't leak
in the walls and come out at night,
he sits by a window, reads in the slant light.

The old Campbell House at the edge of town
takes one last victim when it burns to the ground.

Window Ku

2009-08-02T11:10:00.000-07:00

a kitchen window opens –
the house cat
goes in and out

~

a break in the trees
reveals meadow flowers –
flycatcher's song

~

three grave stones
define a sequence –
a shovel does the geometry

~

an old photograph
on the table –
she's here and there

~

from the moonlit garden
gentle voices –
a window slides shut

Yin and Yang

2009-07-30T15:45:00.000-07:00

A soul that lives alone,
with no friend,
with no mate,
has no east
to call them west,
no left
to call them right,
has no gender,
no race.

With no yin
there is no yang.

A soul that goes alone,
with no point,
with no search,
has no way
to follow,
no music
to lead.

The path to yin
informs yang.

Between yin and yang
a lost soul
roams the rock,
moves from dark to dark.

Speed Trap

2009-07-27T12:53:00.001-07:00

Two cops know that reckless drivers
congregate here, and they make their budget
with fifty more tickets. The road is poorly designed,
it's banked wrong, it's a blind corner,

the tickets should go to the highway engineers.
Bill Gardner's fence has been rebuilt
eight times by the insurance company,
Bill doesn't care, he likes new fences,

they should replace the one along the river,
but it never gets run over.
Two crows follow the river
looking for spawned out salmon

washed up on a gravel bar,
they're like two cops
who know where to find the easy pickings,
and they're not going to change.

Redwing Blackbird

2009-07-23T17:27:00.001-07:00

He fluffs scarlet epaulets, leaves home,
says he's going out to gather food
for the chicks, that's what he says.

Scarlet epaulets go to the other home,
the one she doesn't know,
the one he thinks she doesn't know,

and mates with the other her.
The epaulets go to the sentinel tree
and sing of lust.

Preston Beach

2009-07-20T13:41:00.000-07:00

Down the beach, in the ocean dust,
families cluster around plastic buckets,
rig lures, bate hooks,
the clusters are like barnacles,
poles extended to sweep the surf.

At the top of the beach a tarp is rigged
in the driftwood, grandma tends a fire,
"we'd be better off cooking the bait."
Just beyond the surf,
three red-throated loons dive.

Down the beach, in the ocean dust,
gulls cluster around a sand shark
grandma refused to cook,
she drew a line in the sand.

Yellow Pages

2009-07-16T18:50:00.001-07:00

Sun lights the morning sky,
the neighbor rooster makes sure
we know he's still in the yard,
I get my tea and make a list

for the day, I scan the yellow pages
and lose touch with the sun and rooster,
the categories are wrong, there's no section
for big boring store, the yellows fit

somebody's notion of how life works,
they are not me. The rest of the day
I walk the path down Sylvia Creek
and look for things not in the yellows,

right understanding, means of livelihood,
intellectual activity and contemplation.
In the evening back at the cabin
with my glass of wine I need lust,

gluttony, and sloth, I check the yellows
for a boring eatery and a tasty waitress.
The rooster gives up and goes to bed.

Escapees

2009-07-12T23:26:00.000-07:00

1 –
Jimmy-the-Lip doesn't want to be bothered
so he makes up names, ”I'm under contract
with KGR Corp.," he says,
"to evaluate a research facility,

it's all confidential of course,
all on the hush hush, I'll be in town
for a couple of days, and my report
will depend a lot on how I'm treated

by the locals." Jessie puts a good smile on,
gets a scratch ticket and a refill.

2 –
We take down the street signs
and the escapees don't know where to go,
they mill around on the street,

gather under the sidewalk trees and squawk,
the way gulls gather around pilings.
They see three moves ahead on the checkerboard,

three moves behind on the bed board.
One of the gulls flies off,
three others follow along.

3 –
We go through what will come to be known
as difficult times. Trees have cycles,
heavy fruit one year then ten years off,
ten years of depression for the fruit eaters,

the good times raised our hopes
but it was just a tease,
now we have to scale back.

4 –
Rain changes the smells, it comes in slow,
a few drops, then a deluge that tapers off
until all that's left is storm rumble,
water tumbling down hill, high water

on the Skagit, the smell of muddy water.
Trees slow the water down,
the standing trees and logjams,
like red tape keeping a migration under control.

5 –
I can't use the pond but I like it,
the sunsets reflecting, buzzing insects,
fourteen ducks doing duck things.
On the slope behind the pond a windbreak

shows where Benson scratched out a garden,
where she danced,
when it got quiet he looked up.

White-Throated Sparrow

2009-07-09T14:27:00.000-07:00

Light snowfall starts at dusk,
dusting boughs on the evergreens,
accenting the decks outer edge,
during the night the snow heavies up,

the dusting grows to pillows, the accent
is a drift. Close to the wall it's a great day
for a white-throated sparrow, it joins a gaggle
of seeders harvesting the feeder spillover,

a ground-scratcher's line dance,
the best peckings in the neighborhood,
then the weather changes.

Basket

2009-07-06T06:54:00.000-07:00

A reed basket hangs on the line
with flowers stuffed in its mouth,
the basket is the skeleton of a marsh,
the flowers cascading corpses,
the victims of mass murder by sickle and scythe.

Spirits of the dead at a prairie graveyard
lean against a fence rail
and think on friends who never returned
from an evening stroll.

Death thinks on a corpse
lost in a marsh, a corpse out of the box.
At the end of a row of gravestones
a basket ceremony fills in the blank,
murder reveres death.

The Moth Goes Around

2009-07-02T15:49:00.000-07:00

With new glasses I see the cobwebs
in my cabin, dust I only smelled
before, a moth flittering to dark places
in the printer, curious messages

crawling across the television screen.
Knowing evolutionary biology humbles
the path leading here, astronomical
physics troublizes the road ahead,

today's an egg learning about scrambled,
sunny-side-up, three-chili omelet.
Galileo puts two lenses together
to better see the River of Stars,

he puts away the glass but his thinker
never forgets the proposition,
knowledge that shoves orbits
out of round. I sit in the rocker

with my eyes closed and my thinker
remembers the moth going around the cabin.
The egg takes off its glasses, but it never forgets
which part of the chicken it comes from.

Islands

2009-06-29T14:05:00.000-07:00

My past is an ocean, some parts stormy,
some calm, but mostly it's all the same
texture, it all looks the same,
except for the memory islands

poking up through the waves,
they anchor my thinking.
Between islands I find empty space
in the ocean, there used to be a memory

here, a name, a face, a place
of shared events, it's eroded away forever.
As I get older island hopping
takes ever less time.

Thinking Ku

2009-06-28T12:21:00.001-07:00

an owl on a fence post
looks into my center –
nothing moves

~

an ice thin
covers the puddle
of turbid water

~

sunlight splashes
Sylvia Lake trail –
three girls on bicycles

~

the sun never sees
the scuff of snow
between trees

~

blue moss
on the garden wall –
water drips

~

sky's reflection
swims on a pond –
fish in the clouds

The Tribe

2009-06-25T12:56:00.000-07:00

I live in a state of sad affairs,
the Governor is photographed
with a high school basketball player
and she isn't even drunk,
the Fish and Wildlife Director

is caught with a gill net
and there's no bribe,
the Highway Patrol has a program
to accept bribes, we know these guys.

At the Bent Fork
the regulars come in early,
the old guys, nine coffees,
two pancakes, three butter-horns,
an orange juice, six scrambled,
hash browns, can we get a refill over here?

A young woman walks in,
she's under more surveillance
than a strip club, she's out of place
as a birdwatcher with a white hat,
and she doesn't look like us.

She has a smile that says
I'm not from here, please be nice,
if she comes back tomorrow
she'll be one of the regulars,
one of the sad affairs.

Wind Surfing

2009-06-22T11:29:00.000-07:00

A spring squall comes off the ocean
like a three-year old with a temper,
surf's up, and evergreen boughs dance
with a gust of wind.

Birds at the feeder flush up
and catch a dancing branch
for a belly churning carnival ride.

Wind-waves calm, the boughs settle down,
birds flitter back to the feeder perch
until the next breaker crashes in,
and the feeder birds go out on a limb.

Learning

2009-06-18T11:09:00.001-07:00

Thinker Steve goes back east of the mountains,
to Denver, and walks across the parking lot
to a classroom, a lecture hall,
a coffee shop, util it's time to leave.

He comes back to where the ground is uneven,
the hot air is a blunt weapon,
the scent is a mule named Barney.
The education did me some good, he says,
but the earth did me some better.

Pistol Jimmy gets in a brawl
behind the Buckhorn Tavern,
it doesn't end well.
Thinker Steve comes to the hospital
to visit the results. The air is bad

in here, says Steve, I can smell the plastic
parts, the glue, the industrial cleaner,
the people in here are going to get sick.
The nurse says I'm not feeling too good

myself. Thinker Steve grabs the nurse
and goes back to where the ground is uneven.
Pistol Jimmy says he's learned
enough about doctoring, it's time to leave.

Back at the Buckhorn
Bill Martin says let that be a lesson,
Pistol Jimmy doesn't take to lecturing,
it doesn't end well.

Rough Edges

2009-06-14T11:40:00.000-07:00

I came by that dusty petrified wood
on a desert ridge west of Fry
Canyon, we were resting on a ledge
in the sun, listening to a rock

wren, deep in the realm of thought.
I brought dusty home and cleaned
the dried mud off us both,
now he rests on the table

and I'm in the old wooden chair.
We are long past our prime,
my dusty friend, we have rough
edges, cracks and knot holes,

we also have a glass of wine
to rinse clear the mind.

Garbage Truck

2009-06-11T18:56:00.000-07:00

The early morning sun is starting to burn
a hole in the clouds over Porter Ridge.
Down the block a garbage truck
comes around the corner with a growling.

It spots me standing back on the porch.
Like a coyote it stops at each garbage can,
tips it over and dumps the rubbish
that a family shed like a cat sheds hair.

Coyote warily draws near the carport,
he fixes on a clanking dumster
with a broken wheel, coyote gulps
and swallows with a snarl.

This is not a reticent coyote
slipping through tules at a marsh's edge
on a frosted November morning,
this howling coyote clatters and bangs

around the corner to obsess
on the next street's shedding.

Part of the Dark

2009-06-08T12:22:00.001-07:00

Poetry's lover strolls to the end of town,
then circles back to the alley behind Willie's Tavern
where the guys are getting loose.
Willie's mouser is under the stair

getting bug revenge, Jimmy the Lip and Karen
look over a worn map of shallow thoughts,
Karen empties her pockets into the trash bin
to simplify her life, she simplifies her pockets.

The gang whoops it up in the tavern,
night sounds sneak out like incense,
Jimmy and the mouser come loose from time
and dance across the alley,
it's their turn to have the right of way.

Weeds grow in the pavement's cracks,
not aware their offspring will also be weeds.
Willie turns off the light, locks the door
and becomes part of the dark.

Intersection Ku

2009-06-07T11:11:00.001-07:00

a fork in the road –
in the midst
wildflowers

~

behind Moon Island –
the flood tide
runs into itself

~

a tiger beetle
stops buzzing –
scissor-tailed flycatcher

~

traffic slows
at the intersection –
spilled birdseed

~

under the tree
fallen apples ferment –
snoozing coyote

Thin Air

2009-06-04T11:59:00.000-07:00

Marita steps off the ranch house porch
into the desert cool, in minutes the sun will break
Pistol Ridge and there'll be a good heat on,
the kind that dries out rocks, keeps sage

close to the ground. Marita walks to the corral
where Brandy waits for a carrot, a currycomb,
a saddle, they ride up to Foster Flat
where a hundred head finish off the summer grass.

With the ranch house left behind
Marita drives the herd north over Keg Ridge
and on to the Moon Valley holding pens
where she gets a good price. The heat comes down

like a hammer and thins the air, Marita gets light,
lets loose the reins, swims up and surfs breakers
in the clouds, runs with the sundogs.
Swimming on thin air makes Marita uneasy,

she grabs the reins and rides Brandy hard
back to the ranch house.