housing crisis

the fragrant lumber flowed through town
houses advanced like haze on a pane

as for the northern forests

o carnage, o destruction
the satellite cried, looking down

glancing up from the Safeway parking lot

beneath the daytime moon,
a grapefruit tree with brighter moons
among its clustered leaves

the ticket

I trusted myself
to notice when the light turned red
but proved un-trust-worthy

hallucinatory

on the pane drawn in front of reality
figures appeared spoke their lines, left

she withheld judgment
believed the ones that remained

the moon in the picture, though
never moved

the medicine, slowly
wrapped the pain in spider silk
hung it like a ball

nausea

flat as a leaf, she felt herself blown
through nets of tree roots underground
then whirled into air
somersaulting over houses

:)

the Christmas card from Poland
promptly every year
arrives on March 15

details

she lights a match to watch
the tiny fire mountain break,
advance brightly to her hand

what does he look like
who managed to escape from
every photograph?

weeding

every plant I touch
is throwing seeds--such a rush
to live on this earth

life seems aimless without a pen
days flow by without a mark

news from the deck

the wind all day
entangled in chimes

caesura: the pause between winds

slow to blow

when the red light changed
he eventually
figured out
what that meant

journey

he didn't know how to begin his own
so he hitched a ride to see
where the army would take him

dickinson--
she left behind
a star trail of words

lovely lake view

I wanted to step into the picture
but it is water

shopping at the 99 cent store--
rich enough to afford plastic

conversation with the other side of the face

"If I would dye my hair
I'd look much younger," I said

"That's ok," I replied
"I'd rather be secretly young."

clouds sweep in

a remembered sky!

over a foreign landscape...

how easy it is
to move the sky
over a new home

event

out of silence, shouts
louder, angrier
higher, more desperate
a lifted knife plunges
an arm drives downward

break in the clouds
the sun dumps gold over
the man writhing hand-cuffed on the grass
the man lying limp in the driveway,
red and gold

swift cars, blue uniforms,
neighbors in groups, gold-tinged
the ambulance drives away
a gold star on its windshield

in honor of chicory

rising birds, lifting up out of a blue field
illusion of movement--
a still life of sun
on folded and extended wings

welcoming the new driver to, say, an 8-lane freeway

aren't you proud of yourself
the way you can maneuver
accurately, without touching
within this flock

on their 21st cruise

it was after they had secured their cabin
and arranged things in the cabinets and drawers
that she sat down on the bed suddenly, and said
you know what, Jamie?
I wish I were home

note for nation building

instead of they, them
I really want to hear more us
those of us, those among us...

I want the things that unite us
to decorate our shelves

homesick?

on the rippled water
an approaching mast
and the bridge begins to hum
two halves rise, drawing in the air
a non-existent mountain...

seaside on a Tuesday

the ocean is bored without us
lifts a languid hand to slap the beach

wipe your feet

on the door mat do
a little dance

refuge

in the kitchen
she surrounds herself
with things that will obey

amuse

although
our atoms formed together
part of the water, hardly distinguishable
and our energies go over in around--
pass through each other
all the time like ghosts

how is it
we’re enamored of the sharp image
straight edges, solid forms, incised letters
demarcations–eyes, noses, fingers
present and accounted for

and the numbers tally up, agreeing
goals, ends, clearly showing
orderly, marching closer...

Sunday dinner

people greeting people all around

alone, he comes to the restaurant
for the left-over smiles

windy weather, lax

from the seventh floor, by the airport
we watched the airplanes blow towards us
Aeroflot, Emirates, Philippine Air, LAN Peru--
labeled winds

always hungry

I had in mind the dog
but it was only an empty
brown paper shopping bag
looking up at me

cleanup time

when the web of time
joined the dust of time
she gave in and cleaned the cabinet

.


(the dust, on little
rubber bands
bounces right back)

theoretically, from the distance, knowing nothing

so easy, so familiar
pulling back a practiced finger
and the action playing
tiny and so far away
hardly feels like murder

the cries? we've heard these cries before
coming out of our own mouths--
nothing anyone would pay attention to
and we've been dead a long time
to anything but anger

still, we'd take it all back
for pizza and a night at home...

feisty

overheard, stopped at a red light, window down
two graybeards conversing on a bus stop bench
“Now, I don’t wannna have ta kill ya...”

jet (or swine flu, hopefully)

begins with intimation
builds to thunder
which subsides
does not come our way

wording

a landscape tossed by wind
a climate, cool caves beneath the branches
entertainments--spiders, squirrels, birds
the coming and going of its leaves

all this compressed into one word, tree
hardly worth a second glance

(word--at first, supplement to a feeling
then a feeling supplanted)

change yourself for the better?

sure you can learn a few things
give yourself lessons, lectures, sermons
make mental notes, resolutions, conversions
but in life we can only truly be
the way it comes to us

it's just good feng shui (Dunsmuir take note)

suspend some wind chimes in the canyon--
the river, the railroad, the freeway and the wind
blowing through town through opposite doors

mathphobe mutterings

one number is pretty much like any other

stored on slanted shelves, they slip off