triptych (velvet, pedicle, comb)

punk mirror picturepoems

never boned ire crying















self (yr pony font)


















Sew Yr Hex Honer Clutch

the fallacy of wows

vow els, bow l filled

a r row

plastic winters

a twisted trowel

boom

vowels of light

time to write

Sensory Delights

I have all sorts of ideas for poems, but I've yet to sit down. Finally, most of the books are shelved, and the desk is almost clear. Not my head, though. The head is cluttered. Whiz of streets and beach and neighbors and boxes and boxes and boxes.

I would like to learn how to do this.

The above pictures are from the California Center for the Arts in Escondido. They're pieces by Jackie Matisse.

Doll House Furniture in Little Tokyo

Needle Box

Pin, you were the worm who holed
the whole begining, web-work pinched
and honed from the pollen, the loosened
tubes stiff with cider. What juice you knew
became my antlers, shedding skin.
All through the weather, musk
on the bark marking our dotted line
incisions. You say the fog keeps you
from me. I say it's the clocks, winking
like shoveled asphalt sugared with salt.
Such selves, our temporaries. The sting is hot.

moved

to california. finally. head spun but happy. so much to do.

but first, fog in west texas, floods in el paso, tan lakes in the desert, red rocks, oasis, wind farms
phoenix is the place where we get lost. kevin finnerty? beacons?

churned air, the heat

descending and then-

here we are; bright and bright and bright and bright