lavaliers of dead democracies

Saturday’s a dead rabbit in a dandelion
garden and cousins 6th removed named
“Lucky.” Still, hoping for the best,

a water-fed, ten-ton clay box hacks
built-in poverty, preserves the best
word reductions and cucumber radishes.

Much as, sallying forth spews (or dangles)
lavaliers of dead democracies, bombs
and intifadas; we attempt to stay cool.

Everyone Wins

No water from the taps
           but the music goes on

we are on the midi 
transmitting sounds, coupons
free stuff; it's tea time
friends like this

         the siren servers
         pumping it out
         more free stuff
             more chances to win
eventually      whatever you want
win win

oo wee 

      just waiting for this endgame
      they calls it, making up slogans
          for the last hippos, ultra cool

jaguars, torn up teddy bears
spying on snow leopards "so awesome!"
peeps like wrapping paper, used sparkly
        seasonal work
                  driverless cars
pharma for everyone
you name it

Saturday, 1/4/2014

It’s damned gorgeous today. Warm as spring,
dry as sandstone. In mid-winter. The goat

is dead. To the laundromat I must go. Clearly
clover will not green the field. That’s
California winter: green. Was, anyway.

G. has raked leaves over her infectious
bloodstains. Where once the blewits grew,

(orange-juicy edible fungus).

The clothes take for fucking ever
to dry. In the meantime, reading
a story about books. Then another
story about books and cats. And
have a coffee. And M. is sick with
a cold. And the chlorophyll will not

rise; the ground props up weed
skeletons and rocks, the towhees
peck for seeds dropped from
the feeder. Sun goes down garishly
the way we like it. Flashing
a phantom green.

Then it’s dark again, and the oaks
throw shadows, make a black
tunnel under which I skittle down
the road to snatch the mail. Yo,
bats, owls, goats: where are yooo. What
do you call home now. Give me
a little scare.

Thursday, 1/2/2014

Oh right, it's another year
       another poem. The day's shot;
   there was work---but actually, not much.
What's a year anyway? 
Give me the real work.

Back on the ranch,
we managed to get the hall heater
started; the sweat will start pouring
any minute now
     Why not write a poem

          An ode to Fridays
The expectation
the release. The third season
of Farscape.     But first
a pizza potluck in the 2nd
floor meeting room
the Fort Ord room
     sparkling water 
     and something gluten-free
not unlike
high school
waiting, eating

Why do we all sit 3 feet
from the table? We're all
perfectly nice people

But. I must comment.

   And now, before bed
the odd collection of
noises along the eves; the ghost
of the kennel owner leans 
on an exterior wall,
lights up a cigarette
   Or it may be
the horned owl
               more likely
the barn owl's
breathy   hissed  shriek

I had
        four hours of sleep
        last night!
                 Yet, somehow
made it through Thursday

Saturday, 11/30/2013

X speaks under her breath; 
taps on the qwerty
click, clickity click click  
saying, maybe
          "ith bin, i'm be..."
       a sigh
       another sigh
from her cube        and
       an aisle away
"yahhh, uhh, ul"
       "ats as first n try, umm"
untranslated. low laugh
of papers, coughs, suppressed
grunts, sub-
   whisper us through 
the designated
seven and one-half hrs.

Monday, 11/4/2013

o do let me know
        if I'm missing   something
the niceties
of email
     on a Monday afternoon
and some blooming bitters
under fluorescence
sits here, notebook in hand
              for respite
yet bloody

o do let me know
         if I'm missing
          dear correspondent
I might be wrong
could be wrong
          in the wrong place,
          wrong time

might very well
be redundant too
          but that is my job

I await your response

— written on a scrap of paper
at work…

Saturday, 10/19/2013

Once again I was caring 
for my dying mother. She was 
small, shrunken as one would
expect, even in a dream. 

Someone offered an ideal 
place in which to die. Large 
bedroom with picture window, 
view of a plain, edged by 
tall spruce trees. Maybe Wyoming
or Washington state. A hospice
room painted by Hopper.

I returned to find her slid down 
towards the edge of the bed, 
her body stiffening, but not yet 
gone. Arranged her in a comfortable 
position, pulled up a blanket 
to warm her. 

Not the right view. Should've been
tropical. Mango trees, umbrella 
ferns, heat, even mosquitos. Surrounded
by the talk and the smell of a large
family, neighbors too. Movement; 
cousins, nephews, nieces, family pig
grunting in its earthen den 
under the house.

The horse whose name I can't remember
had slid into a depression in the soft 
earth under the fence. We pulled
her sweating body back up. She 
looked around, eyes still wild. The colt 
and the sire, Lobito, looked too; 
colt sensing something wrong
in the temperature, the arrangement
of limbs, the sour scent, a general lack
of response, and milk.

From my bookshelf

With all its eyes the creature
sees the open. Our eyes alone are
as if turned back, and placed all around,
like traps, encircling its free escape.

—Rainer Maria Rilke, “The Eighth Elegy,” The Duino Elegies

Sat. 10/12/2013

Hah. Just tried to write a poem but it would

not write. Speeled (!) spelled "write" as "rite"

Right as rain.

Alright. A semi-static, classic pose, watching

the dirty fog drift. Leaning slightly to the right

I notice. As if I cannot--

    cannot right


             As if stroked

by a heavy feather    Tired Sounds of the Lid

playing out across the rooms

many low and mournful horns

                 An invitation to which I am

a writer gone to;

in other worlds, gone to visit

a self governed 
            much better than this