the rim of the sea
is chipped

sails furl
and float away
we tilt

beads of rain
rise from the ocean
to fall on black clouds


god yawns
yet even so
yes even he
the sun a candle
blown out


nyc mornings

the mist-smog grinds down 7th
thrashing papers and bits of dreams
from the hopeless dreaming homeless.
lights shine for no one.

men drive, men honk, men growl.
their hearts are stillborn, but their fists work.
they go
to battle in boardrooms
while women seek another way.

a bird hits the glass and dies
and falls
and dies some more on touchdown.
patters of tears from a nearby fountain,
sponsored by jp morgan chase
in corporate plaza,
open to the public
dawn to dusk.
this dead bird is not public
yet here she is - or was

well anyway thank you
says the doorman.
no thank you says the doorpasserthruwoman.

each remaining separate forever,
thrown in the heap.


stress test

if enough time passes
we will be forced to.
who is we
who forces
how soon is enough


my systems are stress
my pain is
hard to measure
yet known

define the shape of a mountain
the length of a coast
the surface of fog


sleep fragments

The Falls

do not purify; it is pure
do not defile; it is pure
do not change; it changes


I hate the winter because it’s cold. I hate the cold because it hurts.
I feel lonesome because I am alone. I feel what I am.
I know it before I feel it.
Do you
know it?
feel it?

Plover's Trip

from open sky to
open mouth of the cosmic crocodile each tooth is the arm of a spiral galaxy
each grain of sand's a grain of sand each a beach of grains of sand man
call me the bird of the universe along for the ride on the edge man
open never close man

Driving Thru

Smashed turtles on the highway
Five dollar foot long
God in the trunk


RIP Ursula Le Guin

she was a hero. a very important person to exist. she inched me away from misanthropy and toward, well, feminism at least. so sad she will never write another word. my favorite author.

from "The Writer on, and at, Her Work"

Long ago when I was Ursula

writing, but not “the writer,”

and not very plural yet,

and worked with the owls not the sparrows,

being young, scribbling at midnight:

I came to a place

where the road turned  and divided,

it seemed like, 

going different ways, 

I was lost. 

I didn’t know which way. 

It looked like one roadsign said To Town 

and the other didn’t say anything. 

So I took the way that didn’t say. 

I followed 


“I don’t care,” I said, 


“I don’t care if nobody ever reads it! 

I’m going this way.” 

And I found myself 

in the dark forest, in silence. 

You maybe have to find yourself, 


in the dark forest. 

Anyhow, I did then. And still now, 

always. At the bad time. 

When you find the hidden catch 

in the secret drawer 

behind the false panel 

inside the concealed compartment 

in the desk in the attic 

of the house in the dark forest, 

and press the spring firmly, 

a door flies open to reveal 

a bundle of old letters, 

and in one of them 

is a map

of the forest 

that you drew yourself

before you ever went there.

         The Writer At Her Work:

I see her walking

on a path through a pathless forest,

or a maze, a labyrinth.

As she walks she spins,

and the fine thread falls behind her

following her way,


where she is going, where she has gone.

Teling the story.

The line, the thread of voice,

the sentences saying the way.

         The Writer On Her Work:

I see her, too, I see her

lying on it.

Lying, in the morning early,

rather uncomfortable.

Trying to convince herself

that it’s a bed of roses,

a bed of laurels,

or an innerspring mattress,

or anyhow a futon.

But she keeps twitching.

There’s a lump, she says.

There’s something

like a rock—like a lentil—

I can’t sleep.

There’s something

the size of a split pea

that I haven’t written.

That I haven’t written right.

 I can’t sleep. 

She gets up 

and writes it. 

Her work 

is never done.


Death Waits

Death waits.

Death is bored.

Death is tapping his bony fingers on the table (obsidian inlay probably).

Death sighs.

Death unlocks his phone, and likes God's selfie (where is She, the Golden Gate?).

Death thinks, What am I here for. My work is automated. In every system, degradation, death and decay are embedded, subtly and efficiently, in the clickbaits, in the duckfaces in the gangbangs. The personal touch, the craft, they're gone. My father would be ashamed to see how things have turned out, if he were alive today.

Death gets a notification on his Apple Watch, Junko Takahashi.

Death says aloud, Finally, then sits up straight, closes his eyes, opens his mind, his black robe becomes everywhere endless as his atoms turn inside out through the folds of space time to meet Junko on the way.