Saturday, August 24, 2019
Friday, August 23, 2019
Thursday, August 22, 2019
Wednesday, August 21, 2019
Tuesday, August 20, 2019
Monday, August 19, 2019
Sunday, August 18, 2019
Saturday, August 17, 2019
Friday, August 16, 2019
Thursday, August 15, 2019
Wednesday, August 14, 2019
Tuesday, August 13, 2019
Monday, August 12, 2019
Thanks to Greg Joly, letterpress mastermind ~
A large old cabin renovation job in the back hills
of Jamaica, Vermont where I worked
and began many of these poems
on the ride to & fro w/ Susan
Sunday, August 11, 2019
Saturday, August 10, 2019
Friday, August 9, 2019
Thursday, August 8, 2019
Wednesday, August 7, 2019
The first line is a row of girls,
twenty-five of them, almost
a painting, shoulders overlapping,
angled slightly towards you.
One says: I'm myself here.
The others shudder and laugh
through the ribbon core that strings
them. They make a tone tighter
by drummingon their thighs and
opening their mouths. The girls
are cells. The girls are a fence,
a fibrous network. One by one
they describe their grievances.
Large hot malfunctioning
machines lie obediently at their sides.
Their shirts are various shades
of ease in the surrounding air,
which is littered with small cuts.
One will choose you, press you
into the ground. You may never
recover. The second-to-last line
has a fold in it. The last line is
the steady pour of their names.
The Song Cave
Tuesday, August 6, 2019
Monday, August 5, 2019
Sunday, August 4, 2019
Through the bare branch, a flutter.
I thought a flag was an immense wing.
Sky sliced through with long clouds.
The city is an avalanche; all torn down.
I have a bridge in mind; a river.
River, clouds, sky, wing, branch.
Flag. City. Avalanche. Bridge. Mind.