Tuesday, August 30, 2005


a squint in her lover’s eyes

skies of psychosis
deep down
her feet flow
on an abyssal plain

mad heat warming her viscera
rises, steams, streams
past cloudy cheeks
and into cerulean


Caribbean’s stare arrays


far from man
she is born, child to women
blind, to see nothing
except her father’s face

she swirls
around, around
spinning on diluted feet

she only hears
her mother’s cries
a thunderous moan
to be free of this anger

Katrina’s hands thrash
splash fingertips wet

she turns
touching moisture
embracing wind

and her surroundings
revolve near her body

but she is still
calm, hovering
in peace of motion

she can stand no more
of this fighting, so she runs away

and her father cries just ahead of her

as she screams madness into her path

Monday, August 22, 2005

Bob Hancock

"In Memory of Bob Hancock"

I wonder who he was, why
a brick bares his name
in the yard of this library
by the foliage, young
and tender
white striped
and green


that the brick is slanted, sideways
instead of strait, why dandelions
and a walnut stump are within
inches of the memory of Bob Hancock

he may have been a husband
of one of the library ladies, inside wondering
what I am writing about, staring
at her memories
being recreated
in my mind

like when he built
their first house
and he was nailing
the rafters in place
and she brought him
a glass of homemade
lemonade up that old wooden
ladder with round steps, and she slipped
spilling the entire glass onto the ground
just as she raised her head over the wall

and he looked at her
with sweat pouring from his brow
and smiled and laughed. Then they
both smiled and laughed in the hot Kentucky sun

and how he drifted away, her holding his hand
him raising his head, and dropping it back to the pillow
her standing to her feet and smiling a warmth into his eyes

as he died

Will I become
a name engraved
on a brick, outside
the library, planted
next to foliage, twitching
with the passing frigid, spring air
just to the right of a weathered, wooden bench

yes . . . a fine place . . . for a memory.
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    Location: Far Side of Sanity

    And the iguanas dance in the desert/a thousand miles away from this place/and this face: stoned immaculate.

    "Let us remember . . . that in the end we go to poetry for one reason, so that we might more fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them, and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both." Christian Wiman, Editor of "POETRY" "Hang on to your hopes my friend; That's an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away, simply pretend that you can build them again." ~ Paul Simon

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    "Imagination is more important than knowledge." ~ Albert Einstein