Friday, December 28, 2012

Weekly Worded

  By Degrees

“How cold did it get last night at your house?”
“As cold as it got at your place.”
“My outdoor thermometer said, 1 below zero.”
“Mine must have been too frigid to say anything.”
“Don’t you ever keep track of the temperature?”
“I do.  You tell me how cold it was every time we meet.”
“You’re not even interested?”
“Of course I’m interested, that’s why I still talk to you.”
“So I’m your personal thermometer?”
“You are the measure of my atmospheric awareness.”
“What if I lied?  What if I told you it was 10 below?”
“Then that’s what it would be.”
“I never thought of you as gullible.”
“Well friend, I never thought of you as a lying, scheming bastard.”
“Whoa!  I just said, What if.”
“And I said, Friend.
“Good.  I’m glad you’re back to normal.”
“Inside I’m always normal.  It’s the outside that fluctuates.”

Friday, December 21, 2012

Weekly Worded

    The Numberless Age

When the animals entered the village
everyone except the old woman with
insomnia was asleep.  She’d heard them
before, skirting the perimeter, pausing

to sniff the air, breathing deeply as
the puckered dreams of humanity
escaped like aromas into the night.
She sensed how many had arrived by

tallying their claws clicking against the
cobbled stone collar circling the well,
and this is how she also learned to fall
asleep, in a time before sheep, rhythms

instead of numbers, rain against a roof,
heart like a tympanist against her skin.

Friday, December 14, 2012

Weekly Worded

  Ars Robotica

I’m sorry,
but I am either composing
a new poem right now or
revising my long-anticipated novel.
Either way, I am not available
to answer your questions.
If you are wondering about
the lack of imagery
please press one.
If you can’t understand
why lines get chopped up
as you see them on the page
press two.
Complaints and outrage
over the general lack of seriousness,
especially when it comes to
the popular themes of
unrequited love or death, 
press three.
Prosody issues, press four.
To request a foreign translation
press five.
If you have read or written a poem
very much like this one
and want to question its originality,
press six.
For all other quandaries
take a deep breath,
then return to the first line.

Friday, December 7, 2012

Weekly Worded

  Scribbler’s Tanka

Buried like the root
of a plant I long thought dead,
the most perfect word

surfaced, all green and slick
with the effort of rising.

Monday, December 3, 2012

Annual promotion

The Reviews*

    “Did you write this book?”
    “Yes, it’s my first volume of essays.”
    “It looks a bit anorexic, are you sure you’re finished with it?”
    “I'll have you know, it took over a decade to finish this book!”
    “Maybe you’ve got a touch of narcolepsy and don’t realize it.”
    “Completing this book has been the most fulfilling experience of my life.”
    “So then you don’t get out much?”
    “This book is wrought of experience.”
    “Did you say rot?”
    “I said wrought.”
    “Either way, it doesn’t sound like something I’d advertise.”

*Available online, or through Raven’s Eye Press, or by contacting ME!
  Happy Holidays.