Tuesday, May 31, 2011


Three dead mice
I thought they were two
But I didn't see the baby
Which couldn't have been a baby due to fur
A mouse before its prime nonetheless
These had seemed to escape the wheels of the ubiquitous forklift
They were whole
As if they spent their entire lives
In a sack of grain, gorging themselves
Living fulfilled mouse family lives
Doing mouse family deeds
Until one morning they awoke
And behold they were all dead

Yup, so I'm kind of sick, but there are a lot of dead mice particularly outside one certain warehouse. I am usually sort of surprised by them, and have learned to look down as I walk there. This piece is kind of rough and I need to start naming my poems again, but I figured since I hadn't posted in a while...

Friday, May 20, 2011

Pacific-Nord Angst

I think I've become delirious in this long winter
Quietly overpowering Spring and shutting her behind grey
In the wind-chill, the bush outside my window, scrapes the glass
And it sounds to me like the seagulls of Moss Landing
Even now I feel mentally the grainy sand
And the gloomy grey transforms to sea breeze
This is a new cold altogether
And I can nearly smell the brine
Sensory disillusionment wakes me to the evergreens
And the absence of waves hushing up the pebble sand

Friday, May 13, 2011


They are not unlike vultures
Hunched over sad branches
In the gray morning air of my morning commute
Five or six like ill-tempered monks
Who, after drinking to excess, slumped themselves
Over limbs of an oak they wouldn't even look at
Brooding and ghoulish
They are nothing like King Ludwig's cult
All of Linderhof arises and begs them
To spread their tailfeathers
And let the eyes of Argos once more see
And bring mythology back to peacocks
Or at least let forth an unanswerable cry
Like a wounded woman
Once begged of Juno to tranform into
A voice more like the nightingale
But vulture-like they remain
Wrapped in cold April mornings
I use this to excuse too, my own wretched appearance
Were it only warm I would arrange my womanly wiles
About my face, like a fan
But today it is cold and I am feeling ill
You mustn't mind my bare branches and my brooding
The most beautiful birds on earth are doing it too

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


Softly, gently hoof to track
Straight down the center
She steps into Henry Ford's dream
Bushes beckon her back to the wilderness
But she's content to see what man is up to
She looks back at me in my car
In her eyes are years
She owns this town
They've always made me apprehensive, the deer
Their absolute silence
Coupled with the maniacal suicidal encounters on some highways
And sometimes on the railroad tracks in small towns.

There was a deer walking down the center of the tracks when I was on my way back from the gym. The reference to Henry Ford was due to a book I was reading about his odd project in the Amazon. One of his dreams was to see nature and industry hand in hand. I'm thoroughly annoyed with this poem, because it didn't do the moment or my emotions on the subject any justice. But, hey I posted!

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

May 4th

The sun has not quite defeated the morning chill
Still, I stand thin-sweatered in a spot of morning light
Not quite believing that the killdeer has finally hatched her nest
The best news I've had since the puddle I've waited three months to dry up
Has given up the ghost-cloud reflections
And sunk back into the earth

The birth and renewal of planet
My feet pad once again in open-toed shoes
The good news of resurrection in my heart
His art of spring