Monthly Archives: July 2013

Craigslist Poem #1

I do love you tough tittie
you know where am at

am ready to try for just me and you
no more kids holding me back

my mind is free of them
its our time now so much too say

I see clearer now
I need my girl back tough tittie

(These poems are made verbatim from the missed connections Portland section on Craigslist. Only formatting is added. )

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Logbook

4:30 am.:
Earth rise. Mind sail lies flat against the poles under a blue black sky.

As in the mountains when you return from the summit
feeling as if God has put his own parka around you.

Or when a man has endured the loss of a child
and sits in a hollow room until the paint on the walls feels his sorrow.

5:00 am:
Calm air, few scattered crows.

Memo From the Earth

I have a way of storing
excess carbon
deep in my
geologic layers

and you have a way
of digging it up again
and spraying it
into the air

from millions
of rolling
chromed assholes.
WTF.

Summer

she tasted like linen
like summer hay hot from fields
where the swallows dive

Neonatal ICU

The light bowl rubs my hand
sending soft assurances back through my dark alleys.

Time stops here. Clock faces turn around.
Music sits down to watch each dial and waveform.

A goblet of wires collects and carries each small thought
like sap from far away maple trees.

You are new here–from the indigo lake with snow geese,
flying over the quilted land you somehow found our field.

Berries, wax dolls, paper planes, criss cross applesauce–
they’re all here too for when your leaf shadow finds your body.

The People’s Tools

Anxiety is a feather that tickles your ear
when a big cat drops from his tree.

Pain is a solvent that dissolves
stubborn illusions.

Sorrow is glue holds today
and tomorrow together.

Wonder is a paint
that makes you look closer.

The Edges of Things

A squirrel nibbles the tops of the fence boards in the back yard.
The broken tooth smile he leaves greets me when I come home from work.

A baby arrives early.
The town opens a space by the river saying recycling day is Thursday.

Above the clouds a pair of geese crosses the moon disc at night
asking permission if others may follow.

Hats line up the people beneath them
in the city square listening to a quartet playing Mozart.

I follow these things as a rough carpenter banging boards
to make a crate to hold the notes

rolling off the concert stage
in lavender bunches.