FIRST AID KIT LIVE ~

NATIVE AMERICAN HOOP DANCING ~

HEAVEN LAKE (14) ~

Steps

Life

is

but

an

ad

just

ment

The Face Of A Dictator

( take your pick )

All that has made you

Sick in the past

Is present

Ambiance

Turn off everything —

Hear all the animals

Again

Tipi

Bean poles

Branch the

Moonlight

—————————

Bob Arnold

Heaven Lake

Longhouse 2018

MISSING YOU ~

MARCEL SCHWOB ~

R E A D      M E

GUY BIRCHARD's ONLY SEEMLY ~

R E A D     M E

FILMSTUDIE ~ (1926)

H A N S      R I C H T E R

HANS RICHTER ~

EDWARD SAID ~

Bloomsbury 2004

15 ROUNDS ~

BICYCLE THIEVES ~

HAND-SPLITS ~

accuracy ~

poets take note

DYLAN | TO THE CIRCUS ~

DYLAN ~ MORE BLOOD ON THE TRACKS ~

JIMMY PAGE | FULL ADDRESS ~

KENJI MIYAZAWA ~

If you have never laughed

or cried, and need to,

want to, go read

the stories, the poems

of Kenji Miyazawa

[ BA ]

The New York Review of Books

HENRY MILLER ~

Henry Miller

THE  PARIS  REVIEW  INTERVIEW

Arcade Publishing 2014

HEAVEN LAKE (13) ~

Don’t Ask Me Where

The day we took all the back roads for the first time

And ended on many of the roads with a road that

Dwindled down to next to nothing, first returning us

To a wilder state, then grass, then a dead end was the

Day we went places and couldn’t stop talking about it

They've Been Told

Whenever people come

traveling down our

winding woods

river back road

they've been told

to look for a

landmark —

“a red house”

not ours but

they stop at our

red house

momentarily

lost

and we get

to visit for

a moment with

people heading

somewhere else

Pleasure

the maze built for children

a week ago is gone, taken away

but the circular grass of their

padded footsteps is here

Truck Lights

Every night and never

dusk but pitch dark a

truck comes up our dirt

back road in slow low

gear and now with mud

season we can really hear

the truck grind and I know

it is the same truck by the

string of lights on top of

the cab and I’ve let it go

past minding my own

business until it started

going by once and then

it was twice and now it is

three times and even my

wife hears the truck plowing

by very slowly at 4AM when

she normally awakens and

starts to work, rebuilding a

wood fire, finding her socks

and now I see peering out the 

window as the truck passes

it may be a dump truck and

why is it going round and

round each time on the hour —

no one knows and we know no

one to ask — it’s all deep dark

woods where the truck comes

through — it’s become a world

all its own

—————————

Bob Arnold

Heaven Lake

Longhouse 2018

CALIFORNIA TYPEWRITER ~

LOUISE'S COLLOIDAL LOVE ~

R E A D       M E

FARMER ~

R E A D     M E

Cats Blackie & Brownie 

catching squirts of milk 

during milking at 

Arch Badertscher's dairy farm

1954

(Photos by Nat Farbman, LIFE © Time Inc.) 

NORM MACDONALD ~

DANTE ALIGHIERI ~

N E W     L I F E

translated by J. G. Nichols

Hesperus Press

2003

EARTHRISE ~

E A R T H R I S E

Solstice

5:23 [est]

BRICE MARDEN ~

DENISE SWEET ~

Palominos Near Tuba City


In the desert of burning dreams, of armadillo and centipede,

I would call this night pitch dark back home

I would watch for any star to pass into dream song



or point of light called planet to whirl and twist like

a tiny pinwheel swallowing me to its vanishing point.

Here under pewter sky with words out of breath



I chase poems down like wild mares into fenced corrals

I watch close calls with wisdom rear and kick

against the fences of good judgment.



I used to think the skies brought them home,

thundering hooves and swollen bellies, ready to speak

and fire the dry bony floor, sulphuric aroma real as rain.



But now, the horses of white lightning gallop toward me;

afraid of nothing, they rush with an eye for hesitation

ready to brush up against my heart with their horse madness.



Here, it is the rider standing in the wavering heat, erect

and indisputable as a lightning rod braced in the open.

I stand my ground and wait, ready to hold on for dear life.



———————————

Denis Sweet
Palominos Near Tuba City
New & Selected Poems
Holy Cow! Press, 2018

ROBERT HEDIN ~

  

Pollen



For weeks it was our weather,

Clouding the air for days,

A fine bright storm that billowed

Over barns and feedlots,

Making all the livestock shine,

The horses one color.

And like luck I wanted it to last,

To have it there each morning

When I milked, the stalls

And stanchions shining,

The udders all dust with light.






Afterward




Afterward everything hung in perfect balance. Light and

dark, heaven and hell. We weighed our words carefully and

never went outside. We just wandered the house, one desolate

room after another, afraid anything we'd say, even the

slightest comment, would bring the day crashing to the

floor. And so finally we settled on no words at all, and lost

ourselves in little things — watering the plants, straightening

the books on the bookshelves — both of us wondering how

long it could last. It was like some great scale, so fragile, so

delicately calibrated, even the dust was a factor, could tip

the day one way or another.






Whiteout




Here on this ridge

The only color

Left is you,

And soon you too will fade.

The spruce have long

Returned to birch,

and the birch

Are quietly

Turning to snow.





—————————————
Robert Hedin
At the Great Door of Morning  
Copper Canyon, 2017

ROLF JACOBSEN ~

When They Sleep


All people are children when they sleep.

There's no war in them then.

They open their hands and breathe

in that quiet rhythm heaven has given them.



They pucker their lips like small children

and open their hands halfway,

soldiers and statesmen, servants and masters.

The stars stand guard

and a haze veils he sky,

a few hours when no one will do anybody harm.



If only we could speak to one another then

when our hearts are half-open flowers.

Words like golden bees

would drift in.

God, teach me the language of sleep.


————————

Rolf Jacobsen
from At the Great Door of Morning / Robert Hedin
translated by Robert Hedin
Copper Canyon, 2017