More of the new poems.

I am tired and somewhat ill. The weather, although lovely, has changed too quickly for my particular constitution. I have learned to accept this.

My writing as of late has been heavily influenced by a few fine people. Two scientists who are excellent conversationalists and a third who I wish would speak to me a little more. Jim Harrison, Tillie Olsen, Cynthia Ozick, and Colin Dexter have had my eyes and ears firmly focused. This is not to say that I am writing like any of them, especially not the scientists who have their own disturbing language when writing, but that they are all with me as I observe and think about this life that I live.

Again, these are drafts. They are not bad but they are, also, not done. This process is forever evolving.



“the mice of chernobyl”

the weather will not move in for an hour
or two
it does not matter
since we have shed the hard skin
for this roof of tar and asphalt pebbles
these walls
of horse hair and newspaper
look out two panes of glass that shift the light
slightly
make everything not quite real.

watch the pixilation of a grey screen
instead of reading the words or horizons
sleep while awake.
this tomato
came from somewhere far away
it will be just bland enough
for us
to chew without thought.
sip black tea
from old colonies that still carry the accent
harvested for the economy that drowns their many
small lives.
the beef has grown monstrous on the enhanced hoof.
i am one foot taller than my parents.
a strange sort of science.

field mice and sparrows have returned
to chernobyl
given birth to a new generation.
the young seem fine.
what does this mean?





“the oracle and the witch”

a chickadee landed on the broadhead while bowhunting one evening and stopped time. an epiphany in the late october sun where the bird showed me a secret that has since been forgotten. it flexed its minuscule talons and looked sideways into my already foolish soul. this was the blackcapped bird of my grandmother’s stories. the bird that knew things about the trees and the blackwater swamp. she would smoke a pall mall and tap fire-engine red nails and talk about the little bird and the bear. it would nest in the thick black fur and the baby chickadees learned to fly when the bear swam the river for the blackberries on the other side. only one did not learn to fly but to swim instead and followed the water into the roots of the hemlocks and cedars and listened. it became something new. not entirely bird or bear or water or tree but a mixture. a piece of everything covered in feathers. it would not grant wishes but it would answer questions if they were asked properly.

i took a breath and it flew away.
the arrow quivered.
i could smell smoke.
i could see red.
the wet black eye knew
that this question was best left unworded.





“canis”

there is a difference in the sound.
the coyote’s bark has a liquid quality
not so much disturbing as out of place
in the rigid shadows of tree and rock
it rounds the edges.
the wolf touches the center of us.
that howl will open dead eyes
it sharpens the darkness and forces a brighter moon.
it is this way with battles.

some are soft and float like cold mist
bothersome but not important.
others
cannot be ignored or the knife will find its way
into the gentle and sensitive flesh.
the wolf fight awakens the bad dreams at best
the blood spills on the dust in the worst scenario.

the difficulty is that coyotes sometimes become wolves
for reasons that we are not evolved enough to understand.





“the expansive history of the weekend”

two smallish crows pick at the dead cat.
it is still a warm orange and would seem asleep
if not for its lack of eyes.
the crows take fur for their nests
and will feed after the body bursts.

a friend is in Jakarta for one month .
she says
“people stop what they are doing to stare at me.”
she is pale and blond and kind
the people are intrigued by these three rarities.
there are three dressers in her small room
so she can spread her belongings about
thinly.

we all danced at a club after we had closed another bar.
i have found that jack and coke serves me well
if the effort of movement is involved.
she danced perfectly.
this was not a surprise but to my cloudy and shaded mind
it was unexpectedly harsh
as if i thought she may stumble in my presence
show some inkling of fragility.
I thought of walking home
but that would have been as strange as my already being there.
i tried to hide my eyes
in the whiskey and cola and ice
but when she has danced i have never looked away.
this is the secret of the dervish.

there was a light rain that speckled the pages.
i continued to read
as two little girls threw a tennis ball for their dog
wiping the mud and slobber on their play clothes
laughing away the supposed indecency of the act.

in the midst of this
an orange cat died
first giving its life
then its body
and eventually
a story.