Sunday, March 31, 2019
Something wonderful I recently pulled out of the archive —
the catalog of books once upon a time published by
Cherry Valley Editions.
Charles and Pamela Plymell, and back when they
published my first book of poems Rope of Bells (1974),
Joshua Norton was also part of the merry printing pranksters.
Some may recall Charley Plymell was one of the first to
publish then unknown R. Crumb.
As I recall my book was published in 250 copies and
went out of print almost immediately,
I'm not sure why, no one knew me at all,
except Pam, who I was in regular correspondence with,
and in each letter I tucked in another poem.
Pam had a plan.
The CVE little books were printed by xerox on kraft paper —
ingenuous as far as I'm concerned — stapled and
light and easy to move along and to this
day I covet the copies I own.
Charles & Pamela Plymell
Saturday, March 30, 2019
I never touched a drop of liquor in my life
and how so much I've loved these poems
since I first discovered CB in the
It isn't the messy drinking —
which I would have kicked him out of our house about —
it's his soul.
Friday, March 29, 2019
Thursday, March 28, 2019
of the nature
water flowing in
from all sides
riding a train
looking at homes
desiring a home
in the light
on the floor
an old man leaning out of a window
knowing himself useless
the potted plant beside him
backing him up
in a flash
why see you
a couple on a bench
their kids over
by the sand pile
even tho rain
in a clearing
in a wood
each facet light accordingly
the souls responding
Wednesday, March 27, 2019
Regarding the Eclipse
Chances are I’ll never tell
the story of how I found myself
adrift at sea
in a twelve-foot dinghy with a single oar;
or how, once, in the mountains
trapped on a snowbound freight train,
my intrepid companions and I
existed for several days
on a fifty-pound sack of frozen marshmallows.
you could call it adventure, but at the time
it was nothing special. Anyway,
some events—like cloud formations
or teenage children—
are completely inexplicable.
My ambitions were nebulous at best.
All I ever wanted to be was a glass blower
or a wood carver
or failing that, a utility infielder.
A career in the Foreign Service
looked promising once, but I couldn’t feature myself
in formal attire
on a balcony overlooking the capital . . .
What would I be doing there?
to the Peruvian attaché’s voluptuous wife?
And so it is that I stand
on the sagging porch of a tumbledown house
regarding the lunar eclipse
through binoculars held steady by my stalwart left hand.
With the other I gesticulate wildly,
but fail to observe
in the shadow cast by this earth on the moon.
Cathedrals & Parking Lots
Empty Bowl, 2019