The Thing No Longer Howls

In the winter
we eat sharp white cheddar
and drink the sweet cream sherry
we bought at a rural supermarket
in Oklahoma on a roadtrip.
It’s what we do to get us through
the spurning of the sun.
The thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.
We sit by white walls
and fireplace fires,
old books
and feel the fibers of sweaters
against our swollen skin.
It’s what we do to forget lovers
who spurned us
and learn to know each other,
learn to grow old,
to somehow have courage as
we become cowards.
The memories of autumn,
the smell of fallen leaves,
the emptying of the streets,
these things seem sweet to us

the thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.

What Made This Eternal


It was a pedestal from the sun
that healed me.

Precipiced before the town of my youth.

This same pedestal supplanted the
cellular variables in my female
kitty cat
and while it gave me the energy of
my next birth
it also gave her cancer,
like a plant of metabolism,
a burning of time.

If the intuition of the scientists is me
then it is also the way that I have loved
and lost
the delicate and vulnerable souls
I have loved.

These afternoons between time
can never be repeated.
They are outside the script of
fragile acceptance

whose acknowledgement
has made me eternal.

The Air, The Air

I believed in you like the sun.

Magnanimous, significant,
always to return,
but the sun comes and goes,
has its faint winter days
and skeptical days of rain.

I should have believed in you like air.

Always there, regardless.

That is how I suffocate now,
always there.
That is where you go with me,
always there.

The air.

The air outside a bus in Washington.
The reflection of myself alone in
the window.
The scent of summer’s grass brush death.

The air inside a stagnant bedroom,
two thousand miles away from
the islands of Washington,
dirty clothes are with.
The air.
The air and sun are there.

An Astoria Love Unborn

You ran away. That’s it.
Places of America.
Answers in cafes,
treelines along highways,
the unbroken horizons of the stolen
Medicine far away.
A different cosmology.
To wade in saltwater far away.
Pancakes in Delaware.
Toss that electricity into a portal
on the other side of the Milky Way.
We will die before anyone truly understands
any of this human or American stuff.
We will die before it’s you that realizes
you ran away.
Does consciousness realize itself?
Is there a memory called love
or an overturned wooden rowboat
on the beach in Oregon,
is that a metaphor of a Saturday
that is too old?
That is gone before the jealousy
of the ocean’s fury
with children in red hats
chasing the seaspray’s reflection.

Winter Won’t Kill You 2

The winter won’t kill you there

Buried under leaves

Crusty dried and dusty hardwood leaves

My heart beats

Silence and silence speaks

Silence has a lot to say with these hills
leading the way
to the sundown

I know nothingness equates to everything

because here and also there

in midnight and also where there is no light

the winter won’t kill you

Even if I were to die on the sea

You in your nice home then

would be like more than the appearance
of constellations

turning towards the always you forget and

The Birds Of Relativity

the birds of relativity were flying over farms
they saw the students from biology
picking apples and making samples.

the apples filled their blood
and healed some and some went on to be sick.

in their days
some died in retirement
some died in their 30s
some died holding the hands of loved ones
many years later
some died alone.

the birds of relativity approached the mountains
and took a spot atop one
above gray clouds
by the highland hay and a nest of eggs
the way a tibetan flag flies turquoise.

the bird watchers looked for them
but the birds could not be found.

the bird watchers simply couldn’t see
from where they stood
and this is very much like what the sun does

or how the land believes and makes its vegetation

or how what we think love is
is only a companion for the future
a preposition for changing our genetics.

it is now come and gone
the space birds above the circle.

Perfection And The Alcoholic’s Diet Of Unborn Children

alcoholic's diet

This is the alcoholic’s diet of unborn children

Yes, that’s right

Their parents aren’t perfect but wanted
to be

Turning into walls
You didn’t say that sentence properly

That’s funny

Be better

Be quiet, you’re giving me a riot

There . . . ghosts!

Their ghosts?

They live everywhere, even in between the minutes
before watching television

Oh no,
I meant the alcoholic’s diet of unborn children

Not me, not my problem

I don’t have them

Oh just go kill yourself

You drinking again?

I don’t respect you

The Eastern Sky

the eastern sky there
looked pretty

as beautiful as your love
when i left you

dreaming dark blue clouds
of night

mortal like you
they asked to shape breathing

witness to a history
not be forgotten

not even by the newborn flowers
of Spring
or the new myocytes
of your heart

for the eastern sky there
looked pretty

and the stray dogs in the alleys
trailed shadows

sniffing at the dandelions
in May

i see in this darkness

you look for the light

The Land In My Head

There is a large land

a large land in my head.

It is you. It is you.

Taking up what’s known.

The visits down to the ice cream shop.

The crystal ship.

Visits to foreign lands.

Lavender babies.

The feeling of holding babies

in foreign lands

under different suns.

Many suns.

Twisted suns.

Twisting orange suns.


Purple suns.

The feeling begins again and again

like a library of precipices in the blue house

An archive of horizons.

A computational hero

in my chest.

Daily Progressions By Main Street

I got home

I sat in this chair

I thought about you

meant to get up to clean the litterbox

I ended up dozing off
hunched over in my chair

it hurt my neck and back

when I woke up they were in pain

I wondered how I could fall asleep
like that

then I remembered how heavily
I had been thinking about you

how it felt lethargic and burning
in my heart

sluggish and enzymatic

I made myself go up stairs to
do something