Friday, August 19, 2016
Hold the Enlightenment
I ate the salad
swallowed the water
refused the cake
frosted with chocolate,
as Buddha entered the diner,
motioned him over to sit with me.
but chose to focus
on the waitress who served my meal.
She was thin in the right places
and round where it mattered.
more sweetly than I’d ever seen,
as if enlightenment
could replace a healthy diet.
Friday, August 12, 2016
All That’s Left
is chimney and hearth
heated by sun
glazed by moon
chilled by snow and ice
a rich diet of ore timber rock
the old mill
gnawed to dust
every bit of structure
fallen into the creek’s gullet
except this pinnacle
of rough hewn stone
like a lone tooth
with a cavity of soot
focus of its appetite
Friday, August 5, 2016
The house is for sale.
Its roof and walls,
windows and floors.
Each nail, each gap
where a draft slips through.
The entire square footage
inside, and the universe
unfolding around it.
Even the trees with
or without leaves,
along with their roots
connecting earth to sky.
Bugs, burrowing rodents,
snakes and skunks.
Five shares of irrigation
and a cloudburst of rain,
freezing hail and snow.
The invasion of noxious weeds
along with the flowers.
The birds in the morning,
the spiders weaving their webs
on the satellite dish.
The price includes everything,
more than I can mention,more than anyone cares to know.
Friday, July 29, 2016
Like a matchstick accordion
cut from one sheet of folded paper,
the picket fence stretches across my yard,
illuminating the lawn with a line
of faded white. I imagine how fresh paint
might ignite the wood with phosphorescence.
Instead, it’s a railroad track rusted by rain,
a proud set of teeth stained by coffee.
Who knows how long before it sags or falls.
Sometimes glancing out the window, I see
the long scar from a suture on my hip
fading but impossible to forget.
And if I begin, then what?
Scraping and sanding.
Priming the wood
followed by two coats.
Days devoted to this fence.
Days kneeling on the grass
muttering curses and prayers.
Untrustworthy gate, slumping hinges, clumsy latch.
The aesthetic earth which the fence divides
looks pleasant to me on both sides.
No reason for it.
Nothing to keep in or out.
It’s a Robert Frost project, something
that wants a picket fence white, that’s all.
Friday, July 22, 2016
Cycle of Shadow
That shadow, like me, just a cloud
trying to slip over Lizard Head Pass
and ride the slide into Telluride.
Minerals veined like bright bruises
trace a history’s unfortunate luck
where others pummeled into rock,
then slumped into the dark green trees.
See how those patches of snow, remnants
from winter, still dapple the highest peaks?
Once they were clouds too.
Now my backpack strains to be let down.
I’ll rest and see if this cloud makes it.
Friday, July 15, 2016
Only memory remains here,
a painted cross, a spray of flowers
in case the soul is hitchhiking
beside the road where it came
hard against traffic merging
from a different world,
one where we have so little regulation,
where the rest stops are lightyears apart,
the journey encompassing everything.
Eventually we all lose control,
dart across the line separating
fact from imagination.
Let each fatality be marked
like a pin in a map
along the rugged terrain of a heart.