August It is no easier to escape August than January – late summer lassitude bows the asters, curls the sunflowers just as the blizzard quiets winter. My hammock is my sled hurtling with frogs in first fall of alder leaves, swinging over plums fried on the patio, watching the squirrel choose soft figs over peanuts. […]Read more "August"
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"
Husband: All Earth I. Led Zeppelin on Spotify, movie posters on walls, Coors Light and Old Spice, here she dove softly into cool dust. At home, it was canyons and dirt, long showers after boring sex. Her husband: all earth. Here, they were all bodies, purple Gatorade, no sleep. II. Third Eye Blind on Spotify, […]Read more "Husband: All Earth"
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"
Impressions of the Sickhouse I watch in the world, amused by massacre and gin, homeland walls, holiday wars. Viewed from the barred gate darkened surveillance cars prowl, aimless under winter afternoon skies. Cold weather tramps straggle past construction generators, pavement gaps, work order water leaks. I take into consideration the symbolic and the sin. I […]Read more "Impressions of the Sickhouse"
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"
Below is Part 8 of 16 monthly installments for Visitant. ◄◄ Read the prologue / introduction ◄ Read Part 7: Twist: In Parts What happened to those swell analog T.V. game shows with big-box prizes—Oneida ware, chinchilla furs, avocado-green refrigerators? Plenty of work remains for Mother, but Queen for a Day with host Jack Bailey […]Read more "The Jill Hill | Holding Patterns: Dowries"
Becoming Winter has summer become your winter does sun on your skin make you shiver do happy voices and laughter drifting in sound like a howling north wind to you do you shut shutters close windows pull down the shades curl up inside while leaves and flowers are unfurling hibernating June, July and August just […]Read more "Becoming Winter"
St. Oswald’s Day Buying a ticket to ride the first ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge, the ticket seller’s window sign screams: “Leap Day!” I ask her. Then latte makers, the cigar-smoking pug walker, and the policeman with a bomb-sniffing beagle: “What is Leap Day to you? A holiday for card makers?” “If your birthday is […]Read more "St. Oswald’s Day"