the forest god
makes an appearance
this time triumvirate
an earth mother
flanked by muscle
that always accompanies
true sacredness
the grass bends under her step
did you think she
would leave no trace
no evidence
she asks no questions
gives no answers
not even hints
only long meaningless stares
she is gone
the ground thumping
like the hollow log
that it is
Tag: write
sea legs (20210403)
at low tide
we walk the shore
i stop
the sand
tries to pull me in
you have twice as many feet
twice as many chances to
free yourself
you yearn toward the sea
while i hesitate
we return from the salt
to higher and drier ground
spring (20210402)
young deer forage for apples
nessun dorma plays on the radio
my neck bones dry-leaf crackle
open handed (20210401)
separate neatly skin from muscle
more finesse required than i offer
with a single hand
the second an object of dissection
inspection perhaps retaliation
are these bones robot parts
unfinished machines sensitive to
heat pain inflammation
infection inflection
the dictionary squeezed
until only ashes drift down
ashes like snow
ashes like dehydrated tears
ashes like ashes
natural deselection (20200914)
the abandoned white bicycle
beneath the hemlock tree
in the blackberry bramble
a single baby bootie
the forest is eating children
potential (20200409)
hold the flashlight up
under my chin
like a suicidal jedi knight
breathe out
empty those lungs yogi-style
in the light a vapor forms
the amorphous shape
undulates away
disappears as water droplets
spread and the temperature
between them and the adjacent air
becomes insignificant
exhale again
step into
the little cloud of myself
feel nothing
neither the sudden cooling
of nighttime sea spray
nor the volcanic steam
of the just finished running dishwasher
just nothing
and is this
–i wonder aloud to the dog–
what ghosts don’t feel
when they pass through
one another?
the fit of melancholy (20200407)
the poor are still poor
the dying still die
those obsessed with power
wrap themselves in disaster
like moths in cocoons
only to emerge stinking of
blood
self-righteousness
their own vile shit
weaponize everything
the weapons
the disease
the cure
cockroaches
are time travelers
come back to honor
their ancestors
salad (20200403)
mixing cabbage and carrots
folding in mayo and vinegar
even coleslaw has a certain rhythm
if not actual music
tomorrow
i will eat this properly
not just sneaking bites
to “taste” it as it is being made
haiku for a pandemic (20200401)
scribbling on paper
wondering if i should save it
in case i have to wipe
olfactory event (20191108)
the late night fog
carries the smell of candy
the dog doesn’t notice
or is uninterested
or i imagine it
each of these potential realities
is equally valid
in other universes my little hunter
has a cold
has scented a coyote
i am having an intracranial incident
i cannot avoid what
the night fog offers me
no bitter oil slick of chocolate
no icy bite of mint
no slow burn of cinnamon
just the sick-sweet punch
of fluorescent waxes filled with
sugar syrup and unspecified fruit flavors
a preschool classroom
after snack time
each mouth red-ringed
exhaling diabetic clouds
during nap time
***
the morning fog replaces this
with the odors of wet
pine
juniper
cypress
eucalyptus
and standing beneath one
broad-leafed tree
the sound of rain
local to this spot
instantiated in this moment
dew condenses
dripping leaf to leaf
Words and Feathers 