“Facts are surprisingly delible things.” ………….— Bill Bryson, author “Trump won.” ……….…— Fox Skews Facts Are Delible facts are not indelible after all— imagine that now U S headspace is one of delibility, if such a word exists —but of course it may, nothing moors every word to dictionaries: fresh definition embraced, case closed. now…

Drinking It All In a long way up Bray Road past the point where the first of two small brooks cross beneath it came to me in a new way that you and I are still breathing four decades after we met at the threshold of the unknown, the part that comes after now, and…

Walking overlooking a river rife with history that runs along the bottom of an ancient gorge between two mountains autumn rusts. in yellows, russets, remnant greens, drapes of leaves cascade down their opposing slopes liquid as runoff, colors sluiced into the wide wet rush of that streaming source of being boiling white over rocks tumbling…

Nothing But Light reflections stutter in the picture plane as if Vincent were still alive dragging oils across canvas in French light inhaling the color of things expiring his incandescent translations in spectacular conjugations of frequencies setting fire to a field with crows turning night into pinwheels, vibrations underpinning everything in sight nothing still but…

Show Moon look out your window, the moon is huge! though not bigger than life, smaller than that but big enough to have life take a look and admire a midnight sun with hint of rouge upheld in a mosh-pit of trees bare limbs a dark mesh beyond a field upon a sky of blue-grey…

Reply to Ricardo who wrote: How U b? .I b well enough. work’s fairly regular— ’bout 4-5 hours a day at regular pay, plus a couple of side jobs drawing, lucky to have work chug chug keep my hand in the writing game: blogs, two local paper gigs shooting my mouth off at greedy vampire windmills sucking…

Looking Up the horizon circle, past which I can see no further in any direction other than up, hems me in, but looking up I can see forever or as far as lightspeed allows or until more time passes or, more truly, until now shifts again, but by then I will have passed, whatever that…

  Galleon America the complexity of your crossed purposes, beauty and war, grace and wastefulness, you rest solidly at sea upon a liquid without yet dropping through, a steel log with algorithmic spurs hollow inside of rust and rot, a contradiction, weighty and weightless, floating white swan, Earth burns, black pawns, Jesus weeps, Mars is gloating…

Too Thin to Spawn an Echo from here the atmosphere is space so vast its depth’s enough to spawn an echo, but seen from the moon imagine a somewhat fat elastic band stretched round a blue ball, or slim mist of sweat evaporating from the crown of a head still clear enough to spawn an…

Where Buddha Is I thumb down the stack of books: Paper Dance—55 Latin Poets Poetry Like Bread (full as loaves my mother made) subtitled Poets of the Political Imagination and here’s Billy Collins Sailing Alone Around the Room—which is pretty much what we all do to a great extent until, at the bottom: Precise V-5…

Sacrificial Goat everything unknown snaps to light upon awakening in bed, supine, sun-given day ignites a fire, blankets burn, mind’s the filament of a lamp upon awakening stupidity tumbles down a sheer of chance, small thoughts plunge, they start an avalanche, the ground gives way beneath our feet upon awakening light ricochets from every wall, blind see,…

Quantum Angel I call you Quantum Angel because you’re so unbelievable not even physicists can pin you down the way you flit through atoms you must have wings the way you punk time your wings must be turbocharged the way you fling particles we can’t keep up where do you get so many tiny spinning…

Six years ago at New York’s Cathedral of St. John the Divine, I was standing under sculptor, Xu Bing’s, two Phoenixes.  The cathedral is huge and beautiful and so were the artist’s sculptures. Our friend, Bill, who is a warm, personable, and very knowledgeable docent at the cathedral had suggested to my wife and me …

…..“Time was so huge then. …… It could not fail.” …….. —from a poem by Nils Peterson When Time Was Huge that’s the exquisite difference between then and now— the space in time, the beautiful duration of it, its roominess; its amplitude was great enough to contain many dreams, multitudes —today time is crimped in cramps of years…

Lolla Rossa in a field behind our house, Lolla Rossa, transfigured in morning light becomes becomes the instant a groundhog just on haunches drops and scuttles under the shed becomes the light that shaped her becomes particles, waves or both which transcendentally show themselves to us here in this room, and there too fifty feet down…

Requiem . 3:40 am in chair I’m at my sister’s house (like home) swaddled wee-hour early, in an Afghan in a chair (me being at an age that easily chills) a codger reading poems of trees sent by a friend thoughts of climbing them unbidden come: young (youth well spent) amid limbs bent toward light…

The Slim Hope of Ponce de León . best of all seeming impossibilities, of all unlikelihoods at the heart of utopias, is the slim hope of Ponce de León— the golden nut of Eden’s tree to hoard and hold and keep alive, like the fire-tenders of prehistory, an ember no matter how small, red and hot of…

On Dystopian Ships of State I’m on a big boat (which the nautically savvy call ship) if this ship’s a cocooned load of light atmosphere its steel will float, but it will tip if its load’s unbalanced— if its equilibrium is off it’ll start to list— if not adjusted it’ll end a sacrificial goat, sucked to…

Please, See My Innocence I am small and innocent I’ve not yet had time to be misshapen by adults, but I know what they can do so, at the sound of boots I take refuge in this corner. I hide my eyes believing if I can’t see you, you can’t see me but if you…

Burning Bush At twenty I danced the tops of walls Najinsky of the double top plate bent in-two like an onion shoot unbending up through an earthen gate lifting sticks to be put in place nailing their tails held against my boot walking the wires of gravity’s net as a spider commands the filament web…