the party, a paper
umbrella, the atmosphere
slants. the threshold:
me, the air, the steps
suspicions about light. you
sent home for your mother.
the steaming tires and church.
the queue contains three
songs. i pant a sort
of saving. the adhesive
scented seats.
soot? you asked.
the traffic
backs up, the bus
passes so close.
Published in The North, Issue 54
Read here: Magma Poetry, Issue 52
This poem also appears in the anthology, One for the Road, published by The Poetry Business.
so easy. place slipped
between proper
and death. days begin.
fresh. blank. I rehydrate
everyday. the third floor
elevator doors closing. The jeep
leathered and a good luck pig
lashed on the roof. a small meeting
of beer, breath, navel. how
could you know? never.
it could not happen. how
has this come to be? no
histories to glance over, no
gestures to copy, no
divined books to follow. so
it is, your breath on skin.
Published in The North, Issue 35. 2004
i one frost bitten day ruined
my throat. pink wet slippery
throat. noon came
to my back door. mud hugging
itself into ridges. sharp,
earth’s glare at 11:59 am,
a blue tongue. wish i knew
what tamarack means
so that i might use it
in a sentence. swinging
from her to her, kissing
my cotton bed sheets again.
eye on the dog of red
leather. bite down on dry
toast and sip tea. grandmother
spilling from her chair
into her sister’s mouths.
soft palm on my lips.
Published in The Rendezvous Reader – Northwest Writing, July 2002
i expected today to be sunday.
at 18th and marion, old sermons
peel from white belfries, sparrows
circle, locked doors crack
from clinging black iron
crosses. a juniper trips up
the foundation. i am
listening
for your answer. flat
grey october day. boy,
do you look like america:
you said. a greasy pan
of eggs and a pack
of cigarettes smoked. fiery
maples, flaking madrona
with a cluster of reflections
and enterprise just west
of here towering. west,
answers always lie there.
Published in For Immediate Release (now defunct online journal), July 2002
drinking alki ale between 45’s,
concrete arches crowd the sky.
black water fowl dry their wings
at 4pm on a cold sunday. that old
grocery with sidewalks of kittens
and labradors. homer’s been here
for forty years. do you know what
you’re doin’ here? flat lands growing
with mattress skeletons,
faceless toaster ovens
and bottles of empty
22 ounce Thunder. yellowing
raspberry brambles with dwarfed
thistle crawl to the edge of this
black river. a convoy of us
from back east, emerald
city way, stood silent
listening to a drunk
recite his verses
through a plastic box
facing the grey clouds.
we just listened, we listen.
Published in The Raven Chronicles Volume 8, No. 2