Radio static

in an empty bedroom.


lady and her shopping cart.

Geodesic gestures

storing chickens

in the spring.

The gravel road to grandma’s

sways the dome


Dinner on the stove



lying in the dog’s old bed.

The fox’s den is always dug again.



The Swallow

I often record my own voice

and play it back to myself

two or three times.

I don’t enjoy the sound.


Sound can be so many things.


Crisp, April morning air,

an open window.


The swallow announces the end of winter and wakens sleepers in the morning.[1]




[1] Becker, Udo. The Continuum Encyclopedia of Symbols. New York, The Continuum International Publishing Group, 2000, p. 287.




The velvet shirt is hung to dry

on the solitary garment line

with the others.

The key remains newly inverted,

all thanks to clumsy hands and dumb luck.

A monolith should be cast for all its cleansing efforts.

Here arrives the cricket now, only to escape

the swallow’s beak.

All the things will crumble soon.

The spiral knows not of sympathy.



Orange glow window light.

Train whistles for the neglectful listener.

The unimportant becomes important,

 a flood for sorry thinkers.

Cut my thumb with an old case knife.

Comb my hair with the plastic spines.

Chapped lips greet the fingertips.

Train whistles call the awakeners.

A flight from home back home.

stranger in the room

Black coffee in white glow window light.

Piss dribble on a naked thigh

reminds me of a song I heard once.

Rolling over, shut the eyes. See the red and black.

Blue sky dream arriving.

Can’t wake me ’til the after,

won’t wake me up before.



The cotton lines are stretched and drawn over the water, only to be severed in the later morning light.

 The afternoon’s accomplishments are marked with the scent of sweat and coffee and pipe tobacco.

A workingman hums a simple tune while the rest of it is harvested. Sounds of quarrelling gulls and crashing waves will always fill the ears.

She will meet him there with a sack of oysters in tow, whether he wants her to or not.

All the stars will make him dizzy then (or so he says).

Refuge is later found within the other.

Tomorrow marks the gathering.



For the past nineteen years,

I’ve been told

that today is my birthday.

I was born nineteen years ago,

on this day.

I suppose a birthday is an important date.

Songs are sung,

and cake is eaten,

and gifts are given.

I have no idea where these traditions

originate from.

If it were up to me at all,

I’d buy a boat

and sail it somewhere.

Everyday would be a birthday then.



As the lines are drawn for the evening’s catch, the sky is gently pulled to the water’s edge.

The following morning brings fried eggs and fresh coffee, while last night’s tasks are concluded and tended to, accordingly.

Gentle hands wipe the blade free of bloody scales and speckles.

The ragged dog has earned the scraps as afternoon approaches.

Meanwhile, the old men drink beer on the back porch, swapping war stories and sharing dirty jokes.

Each week grows colder as the moon grows larger.

The cycle is again repeated without hesitation.

Variety is the spice of life.