Old House Made Of River Stone

Because I was afraid to sleep alone
I turned to her.
I turned to her boobs.
I turned to her food.
I turned to singing folk songs too.
In that old house
made of river stone
in that old neighborhood in
Fort Worth.
I turned to my cats too
when they’d go clickety clack on
the hardwood floors in the night
my heart would call out
and I could tell the click and the clack
of my polydactyl girl cat from
the pit and the patter of my little blue
boy cat
in that old house
made of river stone.
I could call out in the southern
and they would answer me
and come lay by my side through
the night
until the morning sun turned the air
into that phosphorescent tone
of orange and white.

Volume Of The Future

Today I want to go into the caves
on the Isle of Lesbos with you

only so we can come out of the cave
under the blue sky of the Aegean

and walking together
over rocky terrain
we continue where we last left off

in spiritual and visceral existence.

The scents of the cave are wet salt
and the dampness of years
left a couple trillion stars ago.

Ships in port forget the afternoon
and remember only the Sea.

The Sea is the expanse of your love.
It calls out to the Earth.
It knows it’s known in the cosmos
where the black night is the illusion
of nothing.

we lose memory to remember the past
and to learn the volume of the future.

We wear jean shorts and sneakers
as we walk down to the docks.
Our toes are made of dust.

Your hair reminds me of grapes.
Your name is someone else’s.

The Astronaut

Because of your loss

I’ve learned the courage
to travel into the stars
across vast expanses of nothingness

Silence and silence

Darkness and darkness

Empty houses in memories

Nothing else

I would become a space traveler now

Before, I never would have

I know what it takes to love without return
without forgiveness
to love and never be loved again

to ultimately be alone on a cosmic journey

I would have been too terrified
to accept this unending consciousness

and these things that have their end

I am ready for the stars now

Bring me forth to fire

If Memory A River

Each day I go down to drown myself in a river.

Oh, the ethereal wind that stops me.

The contiguous sky, the contiguous sky

and the burned smell of sage brush and damp elm trees.

Not any of this be your body.

Not any of this bring back your life.

But to become your body again,

a consistency to be human.

I forget and return to the river again tomorrow

when the gray dawn breaks

and the lasting scents of winter drive me

from my pain

for a mirrored sense of ritual.

The river says,

“Go and be mortal. Have the heart of the

deer and rabbit. Collect today, learn what

cognizance is. Learn to love. Look and breathe

and sleep. Your memories will be like the moon

floating high in the daylight. Some moments will

be special and some will be out of place.

We will save the Earth. This Earth, it should be


The Forest Companion Speaker

the forest

I walked barefoot through the woods for you.

Your creamy scent of the Viennese summer

Dreams of pastry shops.
Royal drapery.

No, these were the woods of the West.
The big woods.
The vast ones.
The ones acquainted with receding clouds
across the mountainous sprawl.

I walked and walked, continued,
with cool soil, pine needles and moss
underneath my barefoot steps.

I was earthen again, like animal,
but somehow still a man.
A quiet, nonverbal human.
Something timeless, something ancient.

Chills ran down my spine.

So I listened and had eyes for you.

Your favorite birds came, the delicate finches.
I thought they were your thoughts.
They fleeted with the sunlight and looked forever
for some seedlings.

All I saw were blue afternoons beyond the trees
and the echoing cavern of midnight
which left me wondering
and searching for a cabin where a candle might
be burning.

From its interior this forest was always like
the ship of a giant mariner turned upside down.
A laughter of stuff left on Mars.

Then, you ran across the busy city street,
all this vanished in a moment,
you were rushing on your way to a meeting.

The forest froze inside my mind,
and so these days go on forever.

People Of The Word

People change. People never change.

People change.
I’ll love you forever.
People never change.
I won’t love you anymore.
I love you forever.
If you haven’t matured.
No, I’m talking about maturity.
We are closer to death
once we’re born into life.

Love is always being unborn or
unbore by mortal ones.
Unloaded and let go of.
You do portend to stop bearing.

Love is like death.

In the empty Brooklyn warehouse.

It’s going back around the corner
into the brick building
by that intersection,
back into time,
back into the streets of Portland,
up the western hills.

People change.
Or, people never change.
Or, people change.

In the empty Brooklyn warehouse.

In The House In Your Head

The TVs in this place
can’t help me
They think they can
but they can’t
So I turn to the sorghum fields
remembering you
and knowing that you know
how this feels
with these TVs here
all around in the air
and stillness
You know how their glow
attempts to hold you
It held you many times alone
with your blue eyes
looking into it
past the space in the room
and the person sitting
with you there
by the silence
of the concrete walls
and wooden floor
The same silence
that remains

in the empty house in your

The Loves Oceanic

These things that give suspension to atoms

These things of the being

They’re being and been in my heart for your love

They cause for your blue eyes

The cells of my dreams

Windows of the way the sunshine was with you

In Mexico
after you ate the hibiscus flower and wept

Down a damp street in Dallas

As the snow came flying down in New York City

To make a parade or make us all crazy

To make us cuddle and feel like enchiladas in our

The sunshine was still there

When your buttressed lips kissed me and I felt

My mind tilt like the cascading cliffs of Ireland




Into the crisp and unforgiving coldness of the Sea


And because of that coldness I am preserved forever

Where you reside within me

On this planet

In the depths of the ocean

“The Stars Of This Poem”

Not with the soft hands
that leave me
these are made of desert sand
a different house
a house of hours
underneath the configurable stars
turns the clock from orange to red
some new technology runs
on board a space ship
so a new time is born
one that is free from revolutions

In a cave
below a chalky canyon
I believe in you
for your precious script of DNA
your chestnut brown hair
the journey of your lips

my bones turn to dust

they kiss their galactic sojourn

They are the stars of this poem


nunc incognitae

The days are unknown. Listen.
We will have become in fiction.

Place your veiny hands
on my shoulders

we will be in life
in a cold winter bedroom

late western sunlight
on the wall burning red.

We are the nomads
who left houses
and abandoned love.

Places with wooden tables
drank dark wine
between pursed-lip kisses.

Expect me in your painting
the smell of turpentine
and carving your soul
out of aquamarine.

Your particulates of breath
the canvas

my soul-filled offspring

what is left for you

what is called earth-based