The Stone Remains Silent Even When Disturbed
In whose tongue
do you dream?
I fall closer to death
than birth, yet
the moon’s sliver
still parts the bare
branches and an unfilled
trench divides the
ground. Bit by bit,
we separate – you
remain in the earth,
recumbent, as I gather
years in stride.
Even the rain
leaves us alone.
Snow with Moose
Guide to the incremental, to the sifted mass. The Phoenician mem shifted
shapes, but always suggested water.
Moose likely derives from the Algonquian descriptor “he strips away.”
The Japanese character for water, mizu, evokes currents.
Moose are solitary creatures and do not form herds. A bilabial consonant,
M is a primary sound throughout the world.
The prehensile upper lip undresses branches and grabs shoots.
Wavering, I share the lack of definition, of clarity in design and choice.
The sound is prevalent in the words for mother in many unrelated tongues,
from Hindi to Mandarin, Hawaiian to Quechua, and of course English.
Eleven strokes compose the Japanese character for snow.
A smile would reveal no upper front teeth.
Long legs enable adults to manage snow up to three feet deep. Under water,
individual flakes striking the surface sound similar, despite size disparities.
It can also accurately be classified as a mineral.
Solitude to connection, dark on white. The lone traveler.
Odi et amo (zero)
How I fear what you contain.
Reaching through,
I find only more you,
but when I multiply your being,
the result limits me.
I add myself to your body and obtain
only myself. If nothing is something,
how, what, may I claim?
Your beginning and end, a line
become circle, become identity.
I enter, and entering, depart.
Staircase at Fifteen
Ascending, her centrifugal
influence captures me
and I follow,
breathless,
witless, wordless,
despite all longing
and shared
discretions, despite
the thundering
pulse
and the incessant
demand to act
or run.
She pauses, looks
down, sees
nothing.
Suddenly freed,
spinning off
and slowing down,
shrinking,
far below, on equal
footing but so
apart,
never to meet
in truth, unable
to define direction or
motive, I remain
fixed as she moves
higher, far away, close
but up,
always up.
Chili, Chocolate and Chihuahuas
The Lovely Wife has jetted off to the great Midwest, leaving me behind to sort the pages of an unruly poetry manuscript in the company of Apollonia, the six-pound terror of Texas, and Ozymandias, her doting, but worried, twelve-pound shadow. As noon departs I note hunger’s first tentative touch, and head to the grocery store for supplies. I’m craving chili, but not having a particular recipe in mind, decide to see what strikes my fancy.
Ah, the sun at last!
No more rain, the yard’s drying.
Our dogs, shivering.
For my chili base I’ll sometimes toast dried ancho peppers, rehydrate and puree them, but I’ve recently replenished my chile powder stock (ancho, chipotle, New Mexico, cayenne, smoked paprika) and feel just a tad lazy, so I’ll use the powdered stuff. But I pick up a poblano, some jalapeños and two onions, and on my way to the meat counter, grab a 28-ounce can of diced tomatoes and some spiced tomato sauce. I examine the beef and nothing entices me (ground beef is anathema, and don’t even mention beans!), but a few paces away I spy a small pork roast, and place it in my cart alongside a 16-oz bottle of Shiner Bock and a bag of chocolate chips.
Knowing my plans, the
cashier smiles and shakes her head.
Milk chocolate chips?
Shuffling the manuscript pages, I ask the dogs for their input. But Apollonia declines, preferring to nap in a sunbeam, and Ozzie is too busy pacing to bother with poetry. So I turn to the impending dinner, chop onion, dice peppers, mince garlic, measure out the various chile powders, cumin and oregano, cube the pork, and brown it in the Dutch oven.
Ozymandias
sits by the front door and moans.
Wind rattles the house.
Once the meat is seared, I saute the veggies, dump in the canned tomatoes and chile powder mixture, add the meat, coating it with the spices, and then pour in the Shiner Bock and heat it all to a near-boil before reducing the temperature and allowing it to simmer for an hour, at which point I stir in about four ounces of the chocolate chips and a teaspoon of garam masala. I let the chili simmer for another hour, then remove half of the pork, shred it with a fork (it’s very tender), and return it to the pot, stir, taste, and add a little salt. Done. I ladle out a bowl, pour a La Frontera IPA, and eat. Not bad, I think. Not bad at all for the first chili of the season.
Beer in hand, I burp,
the dogs stirring underfoot.
Only four more nights…
Jazz Study in Time: Migraine
How the body expends its pain,
receptors enunciating their message,
all of one pulse: outward then in,
ice pushing through glass,
metal’s red glow searing flesh,
and the moments between
the piercing and acceptance, the
dull and incomprehensible whirl
of lights flashing from midnight
to snowflake, returning, always there.
O at the Edges 