Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Black Snakes

I was digging through old photos and came across a series from a year or two ago.

Thinking about Dane. Who is in jail right now. Hang in there.

That night we lit black snakes on an anonymous stoop just below Union Square.

Having, Having Not

Lately, I've been reminded how dangerous certain kinds of curiosity can be and how accurate those corny quotes are that say you shouldn't bother wondering how things could have been.

Else, you could dig the hole to bury the cat.

Wiley Oakley

The things we don't get over.

My friend Emily just revealed to me that her great grandfather, Wiley Oakley, was a famous trail guide on the Appalachian Trail. There's a recording of him. It's probably my favorite thing ever. You probably won't give a shit. Why isn't mountain roaming an occupation anymore?

Sunday, August 23, 2009

At Best We Walk on Water

...and at worst? Well, swallowed up.

(Boston, MA & Irvington, NY)

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Monday, July 6, 2009

very much a cowboy

We could do whatever we want
and the sun would still shine on us
like razor blades
spilling from a box

Monday, June 29, 2009

abridged (less personal version)

i am a dog, whining
i am a tethered pole
my wet rope made of worms
i finger-pick night in

Monday, April 20, 2009

how to come away with your hands clean

preparation-less and
rolling into walls
very hungrily, forward

to ledges where
the dipthongs
lure the fishes to
our boats

forgetfully thirsty
worthlessly giving
my hands out
into empty air

oh never to come clean

these fevers over nothing

now diving boats and bells and whistles
take my voice from me

Monday, April 13, 2009

Polite Tornadoes


Albert Finney was the architect of this other world I lived in that looked a lot like the moon except it had oceans. Tornadoes came in through my front door and went out the back. Al ruined the place by picking up old cruise ships with cranes and dropping them on the land to dispose of them. We needed to figure out somewhere else to go.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Thursday, April 9, 2009

I didn't write that last poem

But I did write this:

All things tactile take their leave
And how we are suspended
Each calm, unwrestled
Talking of sand,shells,stones

Wondering what is He
Finishing with
Who are We to ask

Between each a song
Booming forever
To our crowd of stars