Sunday, November 27, 2011

Under Under

Rain is coming. I thirst
in the rain in the clutches of a roux hold
in a bent putty boat.

Rain comes. I’m that under rain
is modified in the links of these boat break.

I am under the rain. She is changed in the connection
of this broke bark smashing.

I under stayed the rain which changed
in connection with the thing where she is broke,
this crying voice that I am.

Eye the hind part, brocade wriggle
that the libretto button elicits is muff
and whisper fleck of pure pour.

I whisper lick. Whisking prosthetic phases.
Slow the rain. Under the rain.
I am under that rain.

I am puerile, lucid and sanguine
under a nihilistic bug pump.

I cut the gasket, under gaslamp.
Snap whalebone fat lamp mist.
Yawning, the vulgar brook ice

off the broke wet tip off under
brown sugar peninsula. I’m hooked
to birds on wires. Black owl awning

a seed packet gone now. She presents herself
a bit shackle back and break care sooner.

Carmelize butter splat I crowd the margin,
slip pat down the crust of a muffin.

Silken tuft in a lilac bed. I slow the rain.
Broken stalk contour of your brush erasure.

I squeak and thump in hedge. Thicken stick.
Under under. Watering can.

Also in a Hat

Also in a hat.
Putty. It just is.
That leak scours
via it is filmy. My
sweet counterpart.
Companion coil.
Sacred glisten knots,
so rich and darken.
Declared the nugget
turned and too late
along the ashen flue.
I with you dreamt
atop a pamper furnace.
I saw that beguiling
bird lick her moisten
maw. Shorn the wear
down rituals. Such is
the reverie enclosures.
Spindle water then
the prospector. Bird
to a hooded daemon
and still somehow
weave salvaged. The
brim compressions,
for in that we took 
comfort. So many 
to drift by 

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Gabriel's Mother's Highway Ballad #16 Blues

Redemption Ebullience

There some who through low
which would want to go to, to

do so out of compulsions hidden.
Most. This then is the manner of

redemptive possession. For whom
the tablet lain solely of the way

to will even casual, else had I fond
of such a defiance. In the immediate

buried then has been splendor
in a guise has also gone. To were

carved out the mythic. Attributes
the brow to the blossom. That any

into which lies alongside the vigil
presided. Urges the referents back.

Basis of notion spectator transform
many places, a profound conscious.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

We Walking Shrines

It took me nearly twenty minutes to become like the others. Pen in hand, textbook opened and sprawled across the table while my eyes, desperate for any distraction, glance up each time the library door swings wide. I stare unabashedly and track the movements of every student crossing that drab and utilitarian carpet, until they’re finally lost to some quiet corner of their own. Only then do the others and I turn back, reluctantly, to our research papers and memorizations. I should be chipping away at my mountain of Psych terms, but my mind’s tracing shadows on the floor.

There’s this something someone called “Walking Shrine” towering over me. The thing could, conceivably, be sauntering legs, though I think it looks more like a triangular teepee frame. The lodge poles were ripped and bent by years of prairie wind, charred black in some turbulent episode, now forgotten. The buffalo hide covering for the teepee, too, has long since deteriorated, leaving only tattered remains. Snagged within, almost hidden, are torn strips of multi-colored garments once worn by generations of families who no longer have need of such things.

It’s strange that the burnt and broken down remains now decorating this library appear to lean away from that bright red fire extinguisher hung on a nearby wall. The “Shrine” looks as though if it could, it would step quickly away. I recall being singed by events in my own life. Despite the proximity of alternatives I could have used to avoid misfortune, I, too, stepped willingly away from safety, toward the more thrilling future. Living is all about those choices.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Cloud: Next Year’s Skull

Countless then settle the crablike fingers on a bicycle seat.
We’ve grown mean to after drift than burn at threads of a sentinel
string parting. It’s a plough roughening the lascivious pillow shade
are both wheat and a theatre shield. The harrowing waltz. Bathed.
But still the upward foams were piled the frilled in the wool
of dampen sheep road grain and wet of its once opened the widen
blanch contusion beyond even our own ascent to become
the marvelous design as if fluttering the bare upon the top
of a nebulous space beaten out of stone enclosures.

Poésie Noire

Bits gleaned from atop the powdered rungs
and doll tongues strung upon a braided cord clasped
between folds of frilly frue, you come
in the night wrapped in ermine and brooch
over fetching skirt, and you’re tippled on the putty,
and I’d sure dig it, but not so go and such tomorrow:
your face mashed and snorgled, perfect shroud
of your makeup layer permanently Turinning my pillow slip,
eggs flipped over my frypan and my sizzled sausage
already sorted like two stacks of cordwood
dumped from the truck and claimed right there
by a hungry pair of lumber barons. Then me,
apron in the kitchenette, my eggs on the plate
getting cold while you proof and yodel under my shower hose,
juice from a sliced orange creeping your plate
and sogging up your toast while I expect the sound
of your bus at the corner. I’d climb into a barrel
of slowboil tar and leaf through the complete works
of Jacques Derrida as I wait for the slow dissolve.
Still, I’m no Marlowe and you’re less Dietrich
than I’d have you be, no femme fatale echoing pumps
down the wooden hall outside my office door.
You just came in the night a bit better for wear.
I’ll feed you my eggfry though you’d like the hardboil,
and by light of day I’ll drive you home in my Packard
with benchseat and rear-projection stock footage.

Monday, July 4, 2011

Sky People - video essay

Bird of a Jetty

Without greater negation that there
  should be no loose rain forever so to fragile

with yet it seem. Talk our prescient
  salvation as out of a broken reservoir.

Casual. No sleeps in the glimpse.
  And there is little parting.

That there must persist, we suppose
  that put so by the song, a cameo liquid

framework to shift the only slight
  enlarge. Not to girdle with anxious. I could

know and who might get through
  the sensory fill now that the dark shine

and crying of the synod under frayed
  wallpapers. I write a name on the mourning

sun. I’ll be far to see to sing more formal,
  the point to each thing for what forgetting.

Tried for a private sorrow. But when you tried
  never did ache and stripped of a sound hollow

sluice bent. Behavior too have given way
  to get us through, as with an unbridle stealth.

More realize of another time, of a dark hold
  of a bent putty boat, directed but when it come

to be more expectant. Or so to care,
  but of course the abstract voices enjoin us.

Friday, June 17, 2011


    Under course in leaning basin
  so fault until the lamp sprayed.
You did not that bought about
in the sweeter anguish, and
later in a garden.

    And then burning. Had sought
  to lent that they must go to a
faerie robot patina and to faith,
the tiny thing among side
the chatty nasturtium

    and blacken currant that looked
  naïve. That there are no schedule.
For this flap back look such as that
split then. Solemn the sun hid
of a huge and ridged eyelid.

Duluth - watercolor on paper

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Jellyfish Pickle

      About don’t, headache and bull bauble twirl
nestled in the coarse gladden, has milieux in the tuque,
sluice in the wine bag fluke and bum along is breading.
Align unless. Be live and we believe in now, a moose.
He clomp ginger over meadow, a gherkin muse
of moist breath vale pall. Snort the jimsonweed
burlap bitter notions and drop hide sack to muck.
In pickling sludge soil, supine tureen bowl over blister
and silk scrub hisses. Wormward. The nipped flute stem
wear bent wet cord petites upon that which even crow 
molt. Course the hair gone grass thin cluster rot now
rise to glass opaque bell structure, rise to fill a sky
by electric nettles. Lightning bug wander string.
Jellies graze in cluster of timid nuzzle, though       
lick a clouds staid of may craggle blues. Snuggle
a petite cigar. An echo void between jelly fishier.
Moose bull thunder now gone to kowtow.
Such the quiver pickle in the vinegar brine inch.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Goodnight Minneapple

Brimful Jug

If once the pond they rose to hold to hurt,
  her hands she cupped and spoke so slow and she
    the one they sing of ply the veil. And she

that stood were kept at least and blind to put
  such drink today my mouth she bruised if once
    from me withdrawn to which I gave undone.

The walk the toil the veil ornate as one
  in this belief and gleam of sun so that
    we all in kneel to pray. We lay that was

if once unscathed by will confess and His
  the hallowed scorn had mount and now if each
    whose word were stir and simply left to lyre.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Thursday, May 12, 2011


She also happened with her sense left upon this
 and again she saw awhile a couple and went after
  until the night garden exploded and with her ongoing
   were left pure, were it not to divert the elysian field

    that set with relative features. With no touch were it
   made possible to peach. And in this way was she asked
  for the cushion sugars that she had tried to the koi pond
 and she laced herself into such fragrant liqueurs there

and were to bloom to. Ask when the daisies emerge
 waterproof and demonstrate such plague signals after
  having put at the rational hook which had left with
   enough to denial when turned to easement. Then

    she turned reclusive. Use. She spared unframed then
   by the altered body compositions with no recourse
  to greater definition. Just as she had chosen persistence
 liners that you are now a snail alongside the tinier rind.

Gush Hedge Then

My life
from this
stirring a

which movements
like a considerable
beast designed to
refract sun were

sculpt the molded
prairie flowers. And
crushing against some.
I slept in violets,

were silent that
we heard and as such
that trembled
of the render deep

toward me to wake.
I ceased sleep here,
its cloth of derision
taken and also

from then on.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Friday, April 1, 2011

The Balloon Station

Our clicking heels fade down the cobbled stones
and around the rainbow’s end that pot-houses the golden slurry
of bubbled beans and franks. Far from tilled fields,
the lines of heaving trees, once daunting and rimmed with mystery,
become as undulating rows along a familiar boulevard.
We’re gingham girls from out the family clapboard.
We chase crystal ball whims and bow down to crowned heads of Europe.
And though there are many faces in the darkened wood,
we feel safe clutching the trunk, running our fingers
across rough hides. Trees are so terrifyingly tall
with tendrils screwed deep under sod. They whisper
to one another, pass ancient secrets culled from out the husk.
We’re little. We like the cover as ambient light filters
through a shifting lid of latticework. It’s what we know.
We feel safe beneath the burls.

But like Valhalla dumped out from Odin’s nest,
a city of light rises from the sodden prairie.
Celestial voices call us from the safety of the wood.
We step out into the sun, into the light where trees tower
no more. The splendid city is close now and holds wonders
forged to fit every prayer. We want to lick it.
Hidden somewhere deep within the polished walls of the city
is a balloon station, baskets at the ready
for feats of stratospheric derring-do.
We want to ride on currents of air.
We break from the trees, run there
laughing, bounding through the fields
of poppies, poppies.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Friday, March 25, 2011

Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire - 100 years ago today!

The Old Knickers - by James D. Autio

The Old Knickers

She wears threadbare floral prints.
She has a family back at the tenement
waiting for hugs and feed: hurly bulk of a husband,
perpetual scent of sweat, nails ringed with black.
Her hungry young are growling in the gulliver.

Had the shirtwaist factory floor an unlocked door,
she’d run out and home, into eager arms.
But the immigrants were not to be trusted. Still,
who’d ever have imagined that an oldwoodframefiretrap
full of sewing stations with frayed cords,
rooms packed to rafters with ready-to-wear,
could sear with such excitement
that doorknobs might melt?

Missus has now gone beyond the mullions, face blackened with soot,
once-long hair a smoldered bob and she sees the fire ladder
two floors shy of doing much good. Leaning out
over Greene Street her ears pop to silence and the sky turns crystal.
Her boys are off kicking cans in Miller’s field.

Firelicking closer, she’s urged to shuffle another inch.
She snatches up her children’s smiles, her parents’ final words,
her husband’s simple straightforwardness and urgent lovemaking.
She grabs old Mrs. Rosen’s hand, and together they rush down,
skirts billowing beneath them,
showing their old knickers to all the looky lous.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Hey Crow

      I’m a stringer
between leafless trees
in a Minneapolis
ice grey morning.
They struggle, yet
hold their own
between flour mill
ancient factories.

from 8th and down
the dead alley, I notice
abrasive brick sliding slow
beneath my touch,
so far removed
from the feel of skin.

      If I could write
to you, I’d wax poetic
on streamers of industrial
white reaching for the skies,
and that lone crow
in our loading dock
eyeing me with  
      mild interest.

Lord Dog at the Fork

The bowlegged dog looked mighty solid
standing there, lord over the fork of a dirt road.
And as we, she and I, approached in our carriage
her boot eased back from the gas. I quipped:

Let’s let the lord decide which road we’ll travel.
As a poet I like to make vague allusions to things
like the work of another poet, especially knowing
that I stand alone, heel toe and unbalanced, entrenched

in ruts dug by the itinerant poetry wagon that crisscrosses
the solar fields. And as I struggle to keep my look of cool
and maintain a semblance of self-assuredness, a grooved out
beatnik hipster of daydream delusion, a tightrope walker

with Converse treads in the bumpy ditch of the
poetry wagon solo allusion semblance wheel rut—
wait, where was I?— that dog watched our approach.
We watched him. He stood solid. We rolled forward

nearing the point where a decision would need to be made,
because, after all, a man and a woman can’t just climb
into a carriage and set off on a journey together only to
pause indefinitely at the first juncture and be unable

to make a decision about which way to go, left or right,
or whether to fork at all, perhaps choosing to remain
stalled at the crossroads and set up shop selling groceries
and souvenirs to couples traveling on, undaunted

by the big choices. But we, she and I, are watchers
and we put our faith in the lord, knowing in our hearts
that he certainly wouldn’t steer us down
some dangerous path pocked out with wheel cracking divots.

He stood solid. We watched him. He barked one time
and turned to his right, our left, and raised his snout
slightly to sniff the breeze. We looked down that way
and the road curved a slope to where an old covered bridge

passed over a creek. The dog looked to us back over his haunch.
We had come some distance already and didn’t know
where we were at all. We trusted the lord though. In the short time
we had been together, he hadn’t yet steered us wrong.

But guide or not, we, she and I, had to choose our path.
We drove. We paused again. Backpedaled and turned.
That old covered bridge sure was pretty.

Snow at Silver Lake

Innocent Nine

My mind breezes between things. Tring tong goes the bell, then a fist – leather gloved – pounding, pounding. Innocent Nine and I scuttle across dark carpet, try to peer between pulled drapes, but the crack left onto our corner of the world reveals nothing. Bam bam bam. The door, solid core I think, withstands another onslaught, but the hinge brasses blanch and shudder at the barrage. Innocent Nine and I exchange wide-eyed silence. Peripherally, I pick up the cheap steel deadbolt. In an instant, Nine is there sliding the bolt into place, without even a sound.  He holds his head low under another volley of bams and tring tongs. Then, the noise stops. Nine bellycrawls back to me, whispers that he heard muttering, footstomps receding. Outside, a door muffles shut; a truck grunts and peels away. Innocent Nine looks up to me and he asks, “Dad, why do we hide from Swan?”

I ease back a drape in time to see the ice cream truck round the corner. Knowing he’s gone, I settle down for the moment to try to explain what Schwan’s represents, but my mind breezes between things and I find maintaining coherent thoughts to be a lot like Eskimo pies. While Eskimos have 381 descriptive words for snow, Baskin-Robbins has only 31 flavors, though that’s still more than Schwan’s offers at the door, but they do have those pies and Baskin-Robbins only deals in scoops. “Eskimos have only 1 word for pie,” I say, thinking it meaningful, but Nine, not even yet a teen, has already stopped listening. 

Sky People

Boarding the Bus

The month of June in ‘92 was a scorcher. The sun had more than doubled in size, air conditioning was prohibitively expensive, and I was sharing an apartment near Lake of the Isles in South Minneapolis. My roommate was a young woman who regularly overindulged in smelly liqueurs. Back then I was an oil painter and my roommate, alcohol permitting, was my model. Jody and I would drink day or night, sometimes even finding some time to create art. More often, Jody and I would frequent one of several of the Uptown neighborhood pubs, spending our afternoons perched on barstools, watching sweat beads roll down highballs. By sundown and paychecks permitting, I’d be floating in a vodka tonic and Jody would be sinking beneath the bubbles of a fizzy green on the rocks with maraschino squeezings.
            This one afternoon I was sitting alone in the apartment, Wink Martindale grinning from the small black and white TV. Jody hadn’t been around all day, but I was hoping that she’d call. I was itching to get to the bar. Just then the phone rang. Two minutes later, I was standing on Hennepin Avenue, waiting for the bus. Jody was in Uptown. Her parents had given her some cash to help her get by, and so, drinks were on her until the tap sputtered out.
            I boarded the bus and dropped my change in the meter. Only a few sweat-stained riders were scattered about inside. I plopped into a seat as far from any other person as geometry would allow, and I leaned back and smiled. I imagined that Jody was already ordering me a cocktail. I could hear her voice calling the bartender man. “Hey man, can I get my friend a drink?” To my left, on the unoccupied seat across the aisle, was an abandoned paperback. As the bus arrived at my stop in Uptown, I grabbed the book and went to meet Jody.
            As we got loaded, we read the works of Arthur Rimbaud. Years earlier, Jody had briefly grazed the periphery of the college-aged literati of Austin, Minnesota.  Jody knew Rimbaud’s work somewhat, but poetry was a foreign language to me. Throughout high school, each year’s English class poetry unit was complete torture. I never liked the sense of disquiet and confusion that poetry raised in me. Mr. Leitie taught me to avoid poems whenever possible. For the first time, however, a whisper seemed to come off the weathered pages in the subdued lighting of that Uptown bar. Across the swelling Atlantic and half of the United States, the voice of a nineteenth century teenager spoke to me:

Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed. One evening I took Beauty in my arms—and I thought her bitter—and I insulted her.

Rimbaud was eighteen years old and he already spoke with an air of wisdom. How many young people mistakenly believe that they are wise with the accumulated knowledge of their few years?

I have seen archipelagos in the stars,
Feverish skies where I was free to roam!
Are these bottomless nights your exiled nests,
Swarm of golden birds, O Strength to come?

True, I’ve cried too much; I am heartsick at dawn.
The moon is bitter and the sun is sour...
Love burns me; I am swollen and slow.
Let my keel break! Oh, let me sink into the sea!

If I long for a shore in Europe,
It’s a small pond, dark, cold, remote,
The odor of evening, and a child full of sorrow
Who stoops to launch a crumpled paper boat.

Washed in your languors, Sea, I cannot trace
The wake of tankers foaming through the cold,
Nor assault the pride of pennants and flags,
Nor endure the slave ship’s hold.

Jody and I shared Rimbaud that one afternoon, but afterwards, the young man belonged to me alone. My years spent as a painter were in a long slow decline from a highpoint of mediocrity, and I knew it. For me, needing a life model was more an excuse to get girls naked than serving any nobler purpose. If Jody realized that, she never called me on it. To her credit, she allowed me the fantasies I constructed to give my life a greater sense of purpose, and to get laid. I had very little that I could call my own back then. I had my paintings, such as they were. I had Jody with me. And on that South Minneapolis bus, the great spirit of the clouds passed me a freebie:

—Sometimes in the sky I see endless sandy shores covered with white rejoicing nations. A great golden ship, above me, flutters many colored pennants in the morning breeze. I was the creator of every feast, every triumph, every drama. I tried to invent new flowers, new planets, new flesh, new languages. I thought I had acquired supernatural powers. Ha!
. . . I called myself a magician, an angel, free from all moral constraint.
. . . I am sent back to the soil to seek some obligation, to wrap gnarled reality in my arms. A peasant! Am I deceived? Would Charity be the sister of death, for me? Well, I shall ask for forgiveness for having lived on lies. And that’s that.
                                                                        Arthur Rimbaud
June, 1873

Jody and I read as the sun completed its rounds and dipped its orange blaze behind the trees and urban skyline. I didn’t tell Jody that evening, but by the time we were drunk enough to board the bus heading back to our dirty little apartment, I had already become a writer.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Twinkle Twinkle

Caesura Coda

Sister’s wiener lay on sand.
Beach fire and burnt stick. Wiener in hand, she ran.
Cold wave took away. Sister stand.
Watch wiener
float slow.

Wrap in foil.
Burrowed into beach. Loaded mortar:
Dropped potato into hole. Covered over.
Piled driftwood dry.
Hour fire.

Sand sear.
Little feet. Sun scorch.
Frolic jaunt over blister burn.
Run for water. Pause a bit.
Wee paws on beach towel.
Teary sear abate.

Old log.
Exhumed. Rolled.
Floated out. Little paddlers.
Little riders. Ladybugs.
Log near going under.
Pulled back to shore.

We have mallow.
Slow sloth seep.
Descend from stick tip.
Mallow sizzle on glow coal.
Tear sear now
slow abate.

Dead father.
Made ash in oven.
Made mix with sand.
Made ash on hand. Sister’s son ran:
Cold lake wave rinse. We grown,
wipe paw. Lemon-scent

About to Pop

Due Uccelli

We birds
in dense lament
for metal moss stream.
Over the bridge fly in sight
we will have shape, scrape
the burn marsh grass, the blazing terse,
and frost the leg pipe darken jewel
egg collapse like sea foam, like
battered cake apron.

Through parchment,
the hang edge orchard
we breathe the jelly egg: bread
and butter smear. We’re a wheat bellow
bride the cold of which forever
prickle. Wine and twilight and we tip
the bluer hats pasted soon
of the portico.

Harder salt touch
rock the straw stalk.
I scent your heart lonely
dazzling corn and naught
but the pone. And we’re limp things,
naught but sedge cheese left to the satchel,
elusive beaver moon dream
and brush knife.

We’re damp
and decadent whisper
snatch of mutual increase.
Savor the saucer jaunt. I’m a post.
You whisper glass poemies and grasp
the swipe board promise hold
and keep, lift and back high
and drink dark violins.

Emerge blue, superb,
bottle the taste straggle
and too tall hum for under
the flap of rainbow moth utter fall, light
the match and grasp damp, made much
for edge shapes and flat pour
cobble reach stitch. I’m strung
now by blur of whisp.

We birds,
tussle tic cupped
such adequate, sugar sweet
shrivel and unctuous slag. Any
brittle mantle horizon and bobbling under
where wounded throb from the cloth
hook harness clock. We strip
slice mill and beak out
to the dark.

First published in 3:AM Magazine.


Cloakroom stand of suckling fur 
and clear the moist blueberry folds.
Liquids crinkle kiss of a fuzzy pebble,
the flaming underhide. Succumb.
Clouded innards thick 
and lonesome. 

Clogged mâche mouth drool
through the razor wire paper 
cache, left. Stay low little finger,
placate face in my ear. Heavy lids 
draped and soften, brown bear, 
stomach in twisted layers.
Thick and lonesome 

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Nancy - acrylic on canvas


Shriveled cloth
that too, did you.
Comma blossom conversation
drop, jump in the moon,
skimming the nightjar of what is now mist.

We danced on train in. Gaunt
fruit glaze mud of sluice mill and scissor.
Spooned the glad man's gabardine plant nuggets
to light trail pack and bent. Find him late
in the iridescent algae at the farthest edge
from the track. We paste grim on the rack.

Like your kernel nub on the amble contour
of a nightshirt, a grasping bramble
of slander hand. Heart buried spindle. Poke
a bonnet switch cloth snagged in briar
duct under fungus lump burl and dally.

Dissolve a gilded lump as dusk slump. 
Look. Poach. Acorn oak. Splendid
crutch of naked and murk.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

James and Storm - Minneapolis, July 1994

James - Hoyer Heights, Jan. 2011

In Sheets of Rain

I dream in styles of offstage weather edge
and the white distress bonnet. Suspend
in linen drift. Decoupage. Hide
a holdover bag by someone’s
daughter leave to rain pause
like a similar church and
the resined pew in memory.
One discovers bird flurry and
necessitate claw, she at a time
smiles so slight, her kindness
to make the outline seldom garden.
There’s a certain obstacle to that texture.

Drawing in crayon and pen - by James, Donna and Paula

Such Cut

Out in creosote
heather pulverize moon surround
and curve retraction, woolen girder exhales
continual dusk and barge among sky sofa wells.
Palm under. Forced down the blazed out
lull bonnet, and under flank, sparkle emotion.
Spry lidless you, pre-sleeping in blank tubes,
your brocade retract and mended lift aloft, now
hat out with your cramp claw rake the air.
The form possibility and prolonged contortion.
As a forgotten gem, fog, horn-hem, lock and moon
rose lattice, at twelve bristle drop, chatter at the edge
a gasp back the swipe board and keep promise hold joist.
Reach the water sank, and pram back below partition.
The gully hedge if dark clam stipple sieve ferns
and black candor made usual plain mill
splice, while what’s left out, while when
only the tin crane remain.
Flat cotton. Lavender
grown linger. Mango
skillet and such.


Just like a buddha in the dome hut of ironwood, blunt
cornice hook breeze, squeeze and feel the drop. He pull
the caesura curtain, spark kinickinick hash
and icy splash of see tap in a coffee can, comb out
the etch cloth foggy naïf bristle gap. Be here crochet.
By twilight soon of the portico, he go beaver moondream
and knife clutch. He would terse beating on strict
margin of sky, ready for battling of sparrows, tight snitch
in the unscuff glove lift and back high, sweet rise
of a drink for the night moth utter fly and like
a saucer jaunt, whether supposed mercy
mutual increase, match and damp,
and go nifty with the magic bone,
or go back.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

detail - acrylic on canvas

digital photo

detail - acrylic on canvas

Le déjeuner sur l'herbe

Chatter bloom on the edge
where mulch egg thatch collapsed.
Fetch a sedge cheese and butter bread
in a patio satchel. Birds beak wide
at metal moss stream near the hang edge orchard
scrape the dead marsh grass on a bridge fly.
I pull you en plein air on red plaid [breathe],
smell of your heart lonely, jelly egg. Dazzle
an oat bellow bride the cold of which forever pickle.
In sight you will shape, pass sea foam and kitchen
body being. I tip a blue hat and elusive
tally lull between dense laments. Bird.
Under ache of harder sun, I leg pipe darken
the blazing terse and faux drip the rinds
into the salt path [we breathe].

Beacon Slurry

Broken slurry of a wobble fantastic girl. She needed I
was not so. Hoist jam in the dark early and passed descend
collate slurry, yet much of the mallet turner I see finally
haste blister theft and fixate for the bone paddock.
Freak for fishing pole putty jar squish in the brainpan.
Eat green apples. Cleft there in the camel boot pontoon
molt, furred knock over not sieve. Who it is.