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December 2015
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February 2016

January 2016

next to these my own seem credible even reasonable

it’s good to be alive to hear this I remember

when we stopped it

when we stopped making sense everything became possible

anything became likely

walked past the dry cleaners the coffee place florist

and around the corner

there we were where were you then where did we go

then in our probable

direction directly forward toward roughly about here

as in this is nearly near enough

to be made well and good enough and made fully harmful

and harmless against

all the categories

beginning with a world

say be had say say say then say

to have been had no be had no

say to be had then to be said

as one in time to have had said

These are celibate poems as poems by one who is celibate may be. But not necessarily so. Less engaged, of course, but whose failures. Not willful but the weird fruit of one whose capacity for fruitfulness was never understood. Who didn't get the message. To shape up. Let the message wander off diffuse to a fearful woody place. Among Feared Things Unseen. Celibate poems absent another. Supposing God. But absent Others. Facts. Material. It has not been a rich life as soil can be but a safe one as inconsequential and less prolific. Frightened and, yes, alone as you. Do not be afraid.  The poems. Silly weak push-back there. To the end everybody gets in the end. Getting it. Supposing a new thing. And a fresh crate for it. And less concern to be looked at or into.

distinguished in the possession of

a bird or a planet. a small wooden object.

cold as a criticism of the sun. no sabbath.

tipsy people learning the rules of emergency.

frightening harps & robins owning art at last.

sure to live forever under frozen bridges.

the old world sparrows you’ve never seen

called snowfinches sing and breed beyond

screens of human ferocity a trembling rock

in any black eye sharp as an Incan blade

how human. how. human. just that. as that.

who’d been writing all this time about the

body in its collided state. whose digital

urges coincided with trees of fruit like

these house sparrows. so birded. so right.

other unrelated matters

Some gifts accumulated.

    Clouds of apt

        sayings whooshed down

my path, frankly

    confusing the cats,

        the one drunk

one whose sore

    foot told him

        to give up,

surrender right now.

    Your gifts are

        coming as lovely

brutal blue breath.

unskillful translation

I'm in Washington! We get together!

The poems are guarded, defended. As they are. They would be other than that, but they are this, it seems.

Of course! We agree.

No code. Thick woods flat shrubs facts & sounds. Scent of unfreedom not breezy busy things. Often cramped & asphyxiating grumps. Now & then a push of whimsy a wish to be other.

When you get there?

But I shouldn't.  These things stole a place from silence. What might have been beautiful silence extragalactic silence. I am. Inauthentic as a daydream. Some don’t get it. This deep distraction is my cell.

Today for the night. Until when will you be in Washington?

Not another world. Cats go hungry. Couched as difficult philosophers. More birds than ever. Sparrows and starlings.

Here is my number …

still looking for it


Died in the brown wood. Dead in the green.

An altar. A gravel road. A pointed stick.

Fallen starling. Ruptured canvas born.


Straight in the eye. Helpful breath.

Struck in the middle. Full of apologies.

Fully alive in a garden. Charred and dramatic.


An ocean in your ochre pouch. Known as it.

Given a laugh. Something for a bit of art.

A beat down choir in drive. Then a threat.


No. I’m not ashamed. Not ashamed am I.

But it is a shame. There is a shame here.

Somewhere. There's a shame. Not for me.