Out to Find Ourselves we do you at the foot of a precipice skirting the brink this abyss I ahead of a glacier ahead of the curve And the crevice doesn’t move unless the earth beneath it moves it doesn’t shift unless the landmass shifts The glacier moves albeit slowly as the tectonic plates upon […]Read more "Out to Find Ourselves"
The Secret Lives of Things I want to learn from slime molds How they take the shape Of tapioca or icicles or pretzels Pink toothpaste, brown cigars Sucking nutrients From rotting leaves and wood And then become blue crusts Yellow splotches, tawny curlicues And vanish. Their weird diversity and transience Speak to me of beauty […]Read more "The Secret Lives of Things"
Night, Cyan Young woman, come and sit with us ghosts of wisdom on the veranda under the shelter of a night sky that is cyan and purple in color. Forget the shadows of his arms Instead feel the darkness of a summer night as crickets in their chorus begin to share with you all the […]Read more "Night, Cyan"
Between Grief and Joy The beaten path is nondescript, a right of way through pristine lawns and tree-lined streets of gracious homes, well-shaded in the heat of day and sound as caves on winter nights, with mantled fires burning low to warm the dens of hibernating souls. You head due south beyond the park and […]Read more "Between Grief and Joy"
Praise for a June Morning At half-dawn the male cardinal slams his beak against my bedroom window, time and again only to retreat every few minutes to trill his maleness. The mourning dove coo ooh oohs in the woods as a smooth breeze invites maple-greens to ride its flush – to suggest fresh is how […]Read more "Praise for a June Morning"
The Stick Dawn is doing dawn, breaking its yolk. At the bank of the Trinity there is oneness. It is in small part, about the destiny of a conifer branch, cracked in an early winter’s wind. At the shoreline, its rhythm laps at the graveled bank, bald as a drumstick, thick as a child’s innocent […]Read more "The Stick"
Hard Noises Education is not the antidote for the destruction of the world See: Cracked skin dry knuckle wet with blood on a climber’s hand Jagged teeth slack jawed bottom of the mouth skyline See: No triumph over the bootheel of power in this lifetime The mountains are not silent For the skiers sscht sscht […]Read more "Hard Noises"
Conversing with Alexa I keep teleporting myself between centuries. I keep searching for something I can’t remember. I’m a spider, flinging out threads of attention, my web without pattern or center. No, the center is hidden massive, a black hole. No, I’m an elk circled by wolves and I can’t keep track of them all. […]Read more "Conversing with Alexa"
The beetle dragging my ass low along tarmac like the body of an overfed beetle. the van slews about, legs on ice behind me, all weight, all hollow weight. . . . . . DS Maolalai has been nominated four times for Best of the Net and three times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been […]Read more "The beetle"
Let Things Slide in Corona Time Does the dust on the table matter so much? If the sun filtering through window highlights neglect. Do I count days from my last hairwash? When it hangs in locks of dread and the mirror declares it’s time. Vacuum up dog hair? So grateful to have dogs, comics who […]Read more "Let Things Slide in Corona Time"