My poem “Heroes” is live at Blue Fifth Review. Many thanks to editor Sam Rasnake for accepting this piece.
Poem Up at Blue Fifth Review’s Summer Quarterly
8
Tag Archives: reading
Journal Publications (January – February 2017)
Links to my publications for January – February 2017:
The Slag Review
“Scarecrow Pretends”
Sourland Mountain Review
“I Praise the Moon Even When She Laughs”
Silver Birch Press “Me at 17” Prose and Poetry Series
“Letter from Kansas”
Postcard Poems and Prose Magazine
“Runaway Bus”
Glass: A Journal of Poetry
“What We Say When We Say Nothing”
Calamus
“Palinode (sol, ischemia, night)”
Steel Toe Review
“How to Do Nothing”
“And All Around, the Withered”
B. McClellan’s Weblog (International Poetry Month)
“From Left to Right I Ponder Politics and Kanji”
“A Brief History of Babel”
Taos Journal of International Poetry & Art
“Henry Lee Remembers Grandmother’s Garden”
“What are You Going to Do (Cento)”
“Magic”
“The Draft”
“Diverting Silence”
In Praise of Chiggers
In Praise of Chiggers
And the others
feasting unseen
upon you,
offering their
blessings
of digestive juices
and anticoagulants,
allergic reactions and
reddened mounds
made pleasurable
by your fingernails
scraping the skin
around them, over
and raw, again,
again, it feels
so good!
Nocturne with a Line from Porchia
Nocturne with a Line from Porchia
Everything is nothing, but afterwards.
I rise and the moon disturbs the darkness,
revealing symbols, a few stolen words
on the bureau. Tomorrow I’ll express
my gratitude by disappearing be-
fore I’m found, which is to say goodbye
before hello, a paradigm for the
prepossessed. Compton tells us to imply
what’s missing, like Van Gogh or Bill Monroe,
but why listen to the dead before they’ve
stopped speaking? Unfortunately we throw
out the bad with the good, only to save
the worst. I return to bed, and the floor
spins. Nothing is everything, but before.
This first appeared in The Blue Hour Magazine in December 2014, and is also included in my chapbook, If Your Matter Could Reform. The line “Everything is nothing, but afterwards” comes from Antonio Porchia’s Voices, translated by W.S. Merwin. Porchia wrote one book in his lifetime, but what a book it was! Often described as a collection of aphorisms, Voices is so much more – each time I open the book, I find new meaning in old lines.
And All Around, the Withered
And All Around, the Withered
I total the numbers printed
on passing boxcars,
multiply by seven, then add two,
subtracting every third odd number,
only to find, in the end, myself
tethered to this empty platform,
spelling hapless with integers,
acknowledging Zahlen and
the infinite. Sometimes gravel, too,
calls to me and I observe space
in the path’s patterns, constellation
stacked upon constellation,
multi-dimensional galaxies
expanding in one swooping arc,
heroic eagles and exploding stars
complicit in their deeds and forever
locked in sequence, yet when I explain
my vision, the words emerge
as convex polyhedrons or inverted,
drooled gasps, and people turn aside.
That boy’s two bricks shy a full load, they
say. The lights are on but nobody’s home.
“And All Around, the Withered” was published in Steel Toe Review in January 2017.
Prayer
Prayer
Death does not choose you at random.
It approaches at your pace, rumbling
downhill or floating in the air,
debris or dandelion fluff,
concealed yet evident.
Listen: a small cloud bumps another,
merging into one larger being —
can you hear its ecstasies?
All the world’s souls, gathered.
Boxcar
Boxcar
Whose voice lingers
among the gathered stones,
raised then lowered as if
to ensnare followers?
This is not the issue.
Nor should we speak of paper
shuddering in the wind
and the dense glare of shovels
in the night underfoot.
Pray that the road continues
beyond the next curve
or increment of time.
Trust in motion,
the reticence of trees.
“Boxcars” first appeared here in November 2015. It had been moldering in a folder for three decades when I uncovered it. I have no idea what originally sparked it.
Self-Portrait with Blue
Self-Portrait with Blue
Darker shades contain black or grey. I claim
the median and the shortened spectrum, near dawn’s terminus.
In many languages, one word describes both blue and green.
Homer had no word for it.
The color of moonlight and bruises, of melancholy and unmet
expectation, it cools and calms, and slows the heart.
Woad. Indigo. Azurite. Lapis lazuli. Dyes. Minerals. Words. Alchemy.
On this clear day I stretch my body on the pond’s surface and submerge.
Not quite of earth, blue protects the dead against evil in the afterlife,
and offers the living solace through flatted notes and blurred 7ths.
Blue eyes contain no blue pigment.
In China, it is associated with torment. In Turkey, with mourning.
Between despair and clarity, reflection and detachment,
admit the leaves and sky, the ocean, the earth.
Water captures the red, but reflects and scatters blue.
Look to me and absorb, and absorbing, perceive.
This originally appeared in the Silver Birch Press Self-Portrait Series, and is included in The Circumference of Other, my offering in the Silver Birch Press chapbook collection, IDES, published in October 2015.
Last Day of Pre-Publication Sales for My Chapbook
From Every Moment a Second
Today is the final day of the pre-publication sales period for my new chapbook, From Every Moment a Second. If you intended to order a copy but haven’t yet (the dog ate your homework, you had to wash your hair, poetry? you’re kidding, right?), time’s running out. Order here.
Many, many thanks to the members of this blog community for supporting my writing. I am truly grateful for your wisdom, advice, humor and willingness to help me traverse the strange and wonderful worlds of poetry and publication.
Recording of “To the Lovely Green Beetles Who Carried My Notes into the Afternoon”
“To the Lovely Green Beetles Who Carried My Notes into the Afternoon” first appeared in riverSedge Volume 29, Issue 1, released in October 2016. It is also included in my chapbook, From Every Moment a Second, available for pre-publication order through tomorrow, August 11, from Finishing Line Press.
O at the Edges 