we do not praise
the lord, no,
not the lord.
Category Archives: Poetry
this State contains mountain and coastline and rainforest and desert and city and village and homestead and condo and boat and plane and many method of wheel and right now my roof is covered in rain
why have you made,
why do you make,
the choices you did,
you do?
i bought a milk foamer from a company in Singapore but was unhappy with the cheap plastic materials and lack of provided batteries so i wrote an email to them and complained
hello!
human being?
yes,
human being,
hello!
betony, betony, wood betony to calm down, down there in the moon’s mud, where there is only creation, never “good” nor “bad”
i have not
disabused myself of
the habit
of making myself
monstrous.
“i’ll probably never leave. is this strange? yes, wonderful and strange. the blades of the pasture stopped in the sun have had all the life cooked out of them by the drought–all the hope, the strength to grow, to suffer–and now”
i cannot wake up
so i can; drink
coffee until i can’t
see and burn
incense until i am
blind.
it isn’t really safe to touch people and i don’t much participate in casual physical contact and there is a dog on the dock just a few boats down from mine and i can still get a little shooting star of oxytocin if i pet this dog as i go trundling by
i lurch and shudder
as i walk.
my man Mike judges himself against a backdrop of slaughter; you catch one, he catches infinity
“You talk to Everyone!”
“There’s nothing left of the sky. Nothing. Why is that so beautiful?”
wake to anger, wake to pain
wake to blue skies ripened to rain
whitewater rafting in eastern Tennessee, well, that’s just something i have not done
today’s table is four
confident sea otters
on a dock borrowed from
morning.
“purple thang, gold hammers, yeah you clean as hell fool”
it is only May
in Alaska
so dusk comes
at a time of
dusk.
coffee is poured into a glass jar that once contained ghee in an effort to liquify the remnants of its solidity
early morning
in the harbor
and the fog hasn’t yet
burnt off.
inappropriate emails formed from formica and wood and eternities of water
the fresh water pump
leaks.
wool, felted and merino, for windows and for bed; are these prices that i can afford? is life for labor, and if so, what will be born of it?
it is
a grayling morning
in a southeast harbor.
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