Monday, August 28, 2006

blue bones

and now, like so many things, we are without

I pictured you on the edge of a continent

snowy hair and ice bergs bobbing

along a line drawn by vikings to pretend

distance, longing

red birds weave and dart, their cloth scraps

nipped from a pile of notes forged

by an inked toungue; your palm

noting the time is takes from one

tip to the next. a place to rest.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

a.longed,ay

someone letting

a thing go; thimble
or grave

flame candle you
coax blood over gravel

no notes for the donkeys
braying your name

when slings can borrow
a keener broom-babe

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Feral Thing




















cover design by Maureen Thorson
tinyside now available from Big*Game*Books

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Sunday, August 06, 2006

Friday, August 04, 2006

blue joice

lilac in the letter

-----------------------your pond the bone building

blue as in topaz. Lilac, juicer ----


open your wonderling domes like four thousand
insects texting
---------------terminals or wills

singeing syllables
---------------cellaphane to foam----

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

In the tunnel
we undid our lessons
asking for no things
but for those which could be made
from metal, plaster

no owls in the catacombs
not a dry eye in the house
no sudden for the wintered

without the opened
box we shaped our mouths
like saucers
and amid the floss left by antlers
we sang to ourselves

I ask for nothing from you;
you knaved, inventing feathers

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

transit. ions.

being out of texas is both a relief and a sort of letting go that reminds me of times when I was much younger. The dog is old. I am older. I am also covered with bruises from the moving and packing.

my parents home is full of shadow selves, but less so than their last home in south carolina where I was guaranteed to re-meet a sort of darkness that lingered in me for days after I'd left.

now we are looking for our own home in a sunny place between the mountains and the ocean where everything costs twice as much. the writing -- the words and pictures -- feels submerged by the need to find a roof and an income. as it should be, I suppose.

our currency should be the feather
is this real?