February Soaking
Winter rain for the sleepy
trees, shirtless now, putting down
long roots to mine the land's blood.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
number 63
Maybe
The heart wanders, the eyes climb
aboard, your hips cast off ropes,
and the hands ride waves in tow.
The heart wanders, the eyes climb
aboard, your hips cast off ropes,
and the hands ride waves in tow.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
number 62
Dad's Lullaby
A murder of crows scraw, cry,
sing a song in these woods of
my father's deep loneliness.
A murder of crows scraw, cry,
sing a song in these woods of
my father's deep loneliness.
Monday, January 7, 2008
number 61
New Moon
Every star hung from leafless
trees, words dangled from frosty
breaths we let go of, walking.
Every star hung from leafless
trees, words dangled from frosty
breaths we let go of, walking.
Friday, January 4, 2008
number 60
Cat in the Sack
Tabby won't let me read, wants
her pets, wants her tickles, purrs
the book from my wanted hands.
Tabby won't let me read, wants
her pets, wants her tickles, purrs
the book from my wanted hands.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
number 59
No Angels
Six of us stand in the snow
waiting for the howling wind
to gust, set blaze to the night.
Six of us stand in the snow
waiting for the howling wind
to gust, set blaze to the night.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
number 58
Diner Rush, New Year's Morning
Screaming eggs heavy waitress
first greasy hours smoking
toast more coffee more coffee.
Screaming eggs heavy waitress
first greasy hours smoking
toast more coffee more coffee.
Monday, December 31, 2007
number 57
In My Lap
The cat ignored me for weeks.
Tonight she makes the climb, and
curls, thrums, asks me no questions.
The cat ignored me for weeks.
Tonight she makes the climb, and
curls, thrums, asks me no questions.
number 56
December 31st Sky
More than months have passed us as
the last sun pauses, blazing,
then falls into the last night.
More than months have passed us as
the last sun pauses, blazing,
then falls into the last night.
number 55
Ghost Trail
Five cardinals dart before me,
some wounded spirit passing,
blood on the snow of the day.
Five cardinals dart before me,
some wounded spirit passing,
blood on the snow of the day.
number 54
Wandering
Any city, any place
are the same: rain and strangers
and this: she's not there either.
Any city, any place
are the same: rain and strangers
and this: she's not there either.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
number 49
Humaphants Feeding
Mouth the roasted salted shell.
Cracking bat, ringmasters whip,
cracked bedroom eyes, this is nuts.
Mouth the roasted salted shell.
Cracking bat, ringmasters whip,
cracked bedroom eyes, this is nuts.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
number 47
food & thought
Morning Glory is the name of the cafe, and it is, and I remember how I stopped a woman on the street in the tiny town of Black Mountain and asked her where I could get breakfast and she gave me directions and promised it was the best around and she was right and this morning, just out of a helluva sermon where a guy sang alright songs and a girl painted an alright painting in front of us through the whole service and another guy gave a bit of teaching that gripped trembly things that rattle inside me, teaching that turned bright light in cobwebbed corners under my house, after that as the snow fell soft and slow in huge flakes my waitress remembered me from months ago, even though I have hair now -- "it's your voice I remember" she said and she hugged me too when I left, my over easy eggs and potatos and sausages and biscuit all together again, off the plate and in my belly as I sat at the counter there, thinking about how we tell stories, the grains of truth in all of them and what we wrap them with, the homes we fashion for them.
Recipe
Two parts to every fiction --
truths you own and lies they wear,
your coins sown in moist, dark earth.
Morning Glory is the name of the cafe, and it is, and I remember how I stopped a woman on the street in the tiny town of Black Mountain and asked her where I could get breakfast and she gave me directions and promised it was the best around and she was right and this morning, just out of a helluva sermon where a guy sang alright songs and a girl painted an alright painting in front of us through the whole service and another guy gave a bit of teaching that gripped trembly things that rattle inside me, teaching that turned bright light in cobwebbed corners under my house, after that as the snow fell soft and slow in huge flakes my waitress remembered me from months ago, even though I have hair now -- "it's your voice I remember" she said and she hugged me too when I left, my over easy eggs and potatos and sausages and biscuit all together again, off the plate and in my belly as I sat at the counter there, thinking about how we tell stories, the grains of truth in all of them and what we wrap them with, the homes we fashion for them.
Recipe
Two parts to every fiction --
truths you own and lies they wear,
your coins sown in moist, dark earth.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
number 45
food & thought
It was a luncheon, full-on, with a line to be served and a spigot for the iced tea and I sat next to folks I didn't know yet, we were all there to hear about this church, what they believed, what was available to us if we decided to pursue official membership there, and I ate salad like a man still learning to, and I ate potato soup as well, made by ladies with sweet hands and hearts that gave up their Saturday to feed us and there was bread, which I loved most of all and while we ate, he told me about the book he's been working on for the last year and half, and about the just-before-sleep vision that he had that started it all and I listened and spooned my soup and I thought about all the things we wear, and what I had on with my collar turned up, and I thought too about all that gurgles and surges under all my surfaces, clear to my marrows.
Self Strata
Layered under my blue shirt
is a well-washed red one, too.
Below that -- skin, bleached white bones.
It was a luncheon, full-on, with a line to be served and a spigot for the iced tea and I sat next to folks I didn't know yet, we were all there to hear about this church, what they believed, what was available to us if we decided to pursue official membership there, and I ate salad like a man still learning to, and I ate potato soup as well, made by ladies with sweet hands and hearts that gave up their Saturday to feed us and there was bread, which I loved most of all and while we ate, he told me about the book he's been working on for the last year and half, and about the just-before-sleep vision that he had that started it all and I listened and spooned my soup and I thought about all the things we wear, and what I had on with my collar turned up, and I thought too about all that gurgles and surges under all my surfaces, clear to my marrows.
Self Strata
Layered under my blue shirt
is a well-washed red one, too.
Below that -- skin, bleached white bones.
Friday, February 2, 2007
number 44
food & thought
He wanted to know how this chinese restaurant could serve the same rice on the same plates ordered from the same menu and have it taste... better... just better than the rest, and I thought of some possible reasons, but just kept chewing, smiling and enjoying my curried chicken and all the tiny vegetables like the mini corn on their mini cobbs -- loving it all except the five dime sized water chestnuts that I left in a pile and we talked about what seems important to us these days, my brother and me and we talked about the work we'd cracked open together this week and I was glad for the view of the street, and wasn't unhappy to see the lady that took our order again -- I like the way she smiles and how she talks and it was good and so much sweet tea to split my guts and across the table from me this man whose dream for work has been through so much fire and refinement and iterations in the last 10 years, but there we were, talking about ways it might happen, and we prayed, too.
Phoenixification
At the bottom of his sea --
his heart's mysterious trench,
unquenchable embers burn.
He wanted to know how this chinese restaurant could serve the same rice on the same plates ordered from the same menu and have it taste... better... just better than the rest, and I thought of some possible reasons, but just kept chewing, smiling and enjoying my curried chicken and all the tiny vegetables like the mini corn on their mini cobbs -- loving it all except the five dime sized water chestnuts that I left in a pile and we talked about what seems important to us these days, my brother and me and we talked about the work we'd cracked open together this week and I was glad for the view of the street, and wasn't unhappy to see the lady that took our order again -- I like the way she smiles and how she talks and it was good and so much sweet tea to split my guts and across the table from me this man whose dream for work has been through so much fire and refinement and iterations in the last 10 years, but there we were, talking about ways it might happen, and we prayed, too.
Phoenixification
At the bottom of his sea --
his heart's mysterious trench,
unquenchable embers burn.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
number 43
food & thought
Just down my road in a direction I hadn't driven it before was a mountain and after driving it up, straight up into the clouds that filled my world up with snow and ice this morning I turned my car and moved back down the grade, stopping to see the shrouds wrapping the landscape across the valley and on the way home finding an Amish store I stopped and bought a small round loaf with good grains and seeds and some farmers cheese and some jerky and a bite of fudge too and tried to eat as slowly as I could make myself thinking about my morning shower where I fell down in the steam and hiss of such a powerful realization of the death in my limbs, and the life, too.
Three Days
We are the tomb he enters.
This skin will be rolled away --
wrestling until the dawn.
Just down my road in a direction I hadn't driven it before was a mountain and after driving it up, straight up into the clouds that filled my world up with snow and ice this morning I turned my car and moved back down the grade, stopping to see the shrouds wrapping the landscape across the valley and on the way home finding an Amish store I stopped and bought a small round loaf with good grains and seeds and some farmers cheese and some jerky and a bite of fudge too and tried to eat as slowly as I could make myself thinking about my morning shower where I fell down in the steam and hiss of such a powerful realization of the death in my limbs, and the life, too.
Three Days
We are the tomb he enters.
This skin will be rolled away --
wrestling until the dawn.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
number 40
food & thought
It was no accident at the bar that the dinner between the three of us was a sliced loaf of bread, a bit of oil and salt and we raised cold mugs of beer, clinking, and at some point laid things down on the table -- difficult things out of our shadows and things we couldn't explain and so much we'd rather not remember and in those moments blood was drawn, something thicker than blood even, spirits -- spirits were rent, and we shook on that and we sensed a brotherhood defining itself, taking shape and taking oath around that table and we walked away, my own heart pondering the implications of bonds that will go with us, beyond our deaths.
Bound
Share your shame and shoulder your
brother's: our trust demands trust.
We press on, a bloody band.
It was no accident at the bar that the dinner between the three of us was a sliced loaf of bread, a bit of oil and salt and we raised cold mugs of beer, clinking, and at some point laid things down on the table -- difficult things out of our shadows and things we couldn't explain and so much we'd rather not remember and in those moments blood was drawn, something thicker than blood even, spirits -- spirits were rent, and we shook on that and we sensed a brotherhood defining itself, taking shape and taking oath around that table and we walked away, my own heart pondering the implications of bonds that will go with us, beyond our deaths.
Bound
Share your shame and shoulder your
brother's: our trust demands trust.
We press on, a bloody band.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
number 39
food & thought
Bowl full of lumpy breakfast again, but in a different kitchen as I stood there in the morning quiet talking with a mouth mindful of the heads still sleeping in my brother's house -- we passed new bits of news back and forth across our coffee mugs, glad to be there and giddy on yet another first day with such warm, familiar smiles and scenes out the windows.
Just Ahead
We take quiet steps up to
the edge of what yawns before
our nervous guts, racing blood.
Bowl full of lumpy breakfast again, but in a different kitchen as I stood there in the morning quiet talking with a mouth mindful of the heads still sleeping in my brother's house -- we passed new bits of news back and forth across our coffee mugs, glad to be there and giddy on yet another first day with such warm, familiar smiles and scenes out the windows.
Just Ahead
We take quiet steps up to
the edge of what yawns before
our nervous guts, racing blood.
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