Category: Book o’ Verse

  • Being a Goose

    do you remember being a goose?
    do you remember flying in pairs
    your neck pulled long and straight
    warm feathering into the wind
    your boney beak bobbing
    far out in front to beats
    pulsed sideways
    by your partner’s heart?

  • Call the Water

    Is it enough
    to call the water
    black to talk about
    the swirls, the crack in
    the floor of this Bay
    That steams up
    sleep evaporating
    soaking into
    a newspaper headline
    till it has mighty heft
    Is now a good time
    to chalk it all up
    this swirl and this crack
    this slow-dripping heft 
    to some sort of
    vague, tectonic displacement?
    Some foamy kerning surge?
  • The weatherman says

    “The eye of the storm
    never hit land
    although obviously the eye wall did.”
    Obviously.
    Like now we’re all supposed to know what an “eye wall” is.
    Meanwhile: I’m having these dreams
    where Mr. Roarke was originally
    Tattoo and he’s saying
    “The Plane, The Plane”
    in rolling tones with a sweeping hand.
    And then he gets promoted and the new Tattoo comes in.
    And the new Tattoo thinks “Alright! I’ve got a job with upward mobility!”
    But he’s wrong about that.
    And those white seaplanes keep dipping down
    slowing to a stop
    while the eye wall of Tattoo
    becomes dark, clustered, clumped.
    Obviously.
    As he floods on the inside.

  • No one should suffer

    Some say “no one should suffer simply because they have chosen to fall in love.”
    But I’m not certain I agree.
    Surely someone should suffer.
    Surely. Someone should suffer simply.
    Because they have chosen to fall.
    But perhaps no one have chosen?
    You think? Because they suffer then?
    Perhaps they surely? Simply to choose?
    I’m say not certain.
    Surely to choose to love, yes?
    Surely to choose perhaps
    to love at last
    to fall
    simply because
    but no one agree.

  • Strut

    Thank you for the strut
    even though I know
    it wasn’t
    intended
    for me.

  • Those nails

    Pity poor Pol Pot’s cat.
    Hitler’s hamster.
    Fed by this thing.
    Stroked by this thing.
    By this skin
    those nails
    they scratch
    that spot.
    Pity poor Pol Pot’s cat.

  • Smaller, slender, grave

    Other people have smaller fingers
    slender grave pincers
    and they move fragments around.
    The smallest
    reposition dust to achieve a fine result.
    Not children. I’m not
    talking about children or
    woodland creatures.
    Other grown ups.
    Living in crash pads
    with thatched chairs and
    acoustic proto-guitars
    hung by the door.
    Look at them. Look
    at their work.

  • Wall pile

    Wet ride this morning.
    Chalk bricks trying to absorb
    pulling it in cold wood
    old wood.
    Paper mats.
    His wet feet uncovered, yes?
    Flat cats lick his feet.
    Vapor socks.
    Lick sneaker pump.
    Lick vapor swoosh.
    And those feet stir.
    Now he’s caressing some space saying:
    “Hi. I will stab you in your leg.”
    Really? Well.
    I don’t see a knife.
    Hopping past.
    Hoping stone
    soon dry
    out.

  • Unphotographed pets

    held with small fingers
    slips of bone
    sometimes lose their names
    change hue
    as six dead gerbils shade
    to four black mice
    as two turtles become a snake
    and goldfish replicate.

  • You, triumphing at last, flags wave

    the elephants do their dance
    and you know that it’s your time
    how they’re dancing for you
    how they’ve painted their names
    how they’ve polished their pokey things
    and you’re just sitting back and letting
    the bump of their girth
    flop you out of your
    chair with each move
    flop you out
    onto the dance floor
    and you’re thinking
    I’m dancing
    and it’s effortless.
    Look at me.