Friday, July 26, 2013
The riders arrive in formation, plumed
in multi-colored Spandex and Lycra,
polyester techno-fibers weaving
their way through town.
How exotic their appearance,
suspended on hollow appendages,
alloyed bones, skinny tires, pedals
whirring like a hummingbird.
Each bike banded with a number,
feeding stations along the route, strategic
stops to dismount and test their legs
against a slower, sluggish earth.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Friday, July 12, 2013
Veils of virga over the Ute Mountain
like gauzy curtains on the horizon,
like half-formed dreams billowing
in one corner of the Four Corners.
Powwow drums of thunder,
lightning sharp enough to bead
the rain, a zigzag pattern against
the shawl of this sleeping earth.
Friday, July 5, 2013
It’s not as if everything
has to taste like chicken.
pork best describes
the flavor of human flesh.
It’s not as if I know
but given a need
and leaner days
I’d take a broker over a baker,
a professional athlete
over an amateur,
a celebrity over a sailor.
I respect the poor
but I expect they’d be stringy.