Featured Poet

up the river
I don’t know how it could have been anything else
	like oranges
	or fishes
	or cliffs
	or books gathered

“	a matter
		the matter						
		in creation 
	of matter ”

in the gutter
   while chinese trading vans
   pass with walkers 
		the bacchants of capitalism 
	are capped with speed behind a stumbling hilltop







in at 
	the signal

thehangingclifforthrustofledgeintoair

WaTER with WiND 
	PreSENT and BouND  
	“in stories of the same day or night”
inagonyamongthebranchesthatblockourviewof
the city whEN foG ceAses

“our current you”
		among festive colors
		in cupboards
		that end the 
		dream of plains
		or buffalo let loose
	I	in the triumphal march
		of crumbling houses
		marked by the steps
		of waking birds

having pleasure in motion
	is a sparky castle
			of subaltern gods playing
				nickels where 
the jive of fast rushes in maroon boots 
	slaps the flower above 
							circles in dark
				squares of fire







for an ache or hero
	that begins with 
	ever in silver 
		books that cease
			to speak in number
	torn in lines
from African deserts
	or lost in an 
				oceanic regret 
					that rests in the south
crouched in helicopters
	over cities 
			where green leaves are 
			expanding in the final answer
		of hailstorms 
					on warm days







flight patterns dream jezebel’s scream 
a mistake that leads another into spasms over cocktails


do thing   as matter  or memo 
that reminds  the signal patterner  of the authorized cannon
with gritty rubber corpses over bridges
 				near albino crayons               

“Green, as in  that apartment just there.”

as had that girl standing there  
in avalon in ur in heaven in enlightenment in nirvana 

poor willie yeats said in the end, “There all the golden codgers lay”
in the hermaphroditic sulphur harvest







as though you were here
or here was there where
age is notation and flies
gather for fallen loves and
candy is scattered 
near park benches where 
old men die and children
run laughing for moments
before the constant ringing begins
and ears are left sore 
next to dusty windows
overlooking crossroads 
in run down neighborhoods
that are transforming 
or are destroying voices
that ask for help
though the alleys are busy
and rat control
is lost in meetings 
meant to relieve the stress
of change 

camus in spring

near arched bridges birds turn with gargoyles 
to laugh at boats  in ice 
under mountains in cities of 
bocce players gathered with tobacco on saturdays 
when the tempo rises to a dull thud in dark rooms where
the salsa dancers hold tight before
semen in the clover of dreamed images 
on screens of post hollywood forgiveness
near hills full of cars and trash cans that 
empty in closed restaurants with 
german beer and cheese 

from the plateaus
the solemn school rooms 
are  dried with poor hands

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