February 22, 2010
Welcome Readers. This site chronicles the process of my writing as well as showcasing some of it. I write novels, songs, and poems. I’ve written six novels: Joe Island, Blues Pizza, Borderdance, Tesora, Tardy Son, and Stringless. Tardy Son was a semi-finalist for the Faulkner Novel-in-Progress Prize. Please leave me a comment.
December 6, 2013
A writer in winter sings his blues:
Who is poorer than a poet without ink?
Does he buy bread or steal firewood?
The woodstove grants him enough heat
and soot to mix enough ink for a story,
so the town news can buy “Snow”
for bread enough to fill his stomach
enough for the ideas in his mind to
expand enough to finish his novel:
—a novel of revenge and cookies!
Why does the President of United Skates use
drones at the Olympics on Valentines Day?
Why is Bob’s body the focus of the NSA?
Read how Rachel Snowden kills evil itself!
A writer needs enough heat,
six healthy meals in a row,
seven nights of dreamful sleep,
eight bottles of red Bordeaux,
and nine days in rehab—
December 3, 2013
A Good Start
I wait for the sun to rise
without believing it will.
A screech of starlings
criticises melody and
a belief in worm songs.
My grunts tell me
I’m alive. Today,
almost as bad as
a good start.
December 1, 2013
Send me a thirty-foot umbrella to hide
the self that’s broken into thirty pieces.
Unbroken men may use tiny umbrellas,
but a scattered brain drowns me, so
one day of writing keeps me dry
for thirty minutes only.
I’m not built for dancing,
but on the toes of pages,
two feet wait for me and
my salsa of no religion.
No dancing in the rain
for me, girl: an umbrella
too big for toes so small.
My cap hides the water
in my eyes, so you won’t
know how far down
the scale I’ve gone
November 26, 2013
A Smarter Pen
I need a smarter pen to better the
words inked by your lips, so I steal
your mad tidings to keep my wit sharp.
You’re so flattered by your own quips,
any verb I steal isn’t missed or misused.
Those words, first uttered in truth,
by Moses, Shakespeare, and Buddha—
now mix with disorders of your orders.
Our sun stole its light from his mother—
we steal his light for our computers and
for corn and beans and oceans and babies.
There’s no copyright date on the words
of fifty monkeys with fifty typewriters,
so Hamlet will never again write itself,
and there is nothing you can steal
from the mother of the sun to put
the dictionary of human stories and
Humpty Dumpty together again.
November 23, 2013
Crashing in Love
Since I crashed, I’ll need a tow truck,
an ambulance, a pretty female doctor,
a shopping bag full of pharmaceuticals,
a vacation in Tahiti, and a barrel of whiskey.
Please use these to reassemble my shell.
Have sanity delivered by a Freudian
shrink in a pink blouse and poodle skirt.
I’ll be on the couch in the corner curled
up with my Hemingway and Fitzgerald
listening to my Clash and Rolling Stones.
She can ID me by the plaster cast on my chest.
Have her write her number over my heart—
just make sure the numbers are upside down.
November 20, 2013
The charm of youth that
once danced in her eyes
turns to wicked beauty
as she tangos in my arms—
a three-minute Maureen O’Hara
in Notre Dame Hunchback eyes,
a Crave from kd lang’s Constant,
a tardy-girl runaway called Juliet—
those are the accents in her steps.
No man whispers wicked beauty
in her ear since her man went south.
He stole one rhythm from her finger
but she owns the floor with her toes.
Passion lives in skin, between skins,
goes chest-to-chest and toe to toe,
so she stands tall at the rest-step.
Her cheek reaches to touch mine
when I need it the most.
November 12, 2013
The Soldier in Me
My eyes beg for a hanging.
Revenge boils my brow, clamps
my jaw, drools from my tongue.
My feet burn, I say. You know—
your father stood in the same fire
when he faced a phalanx of tanks
in the deserts of southern Iraq.
But the angers we carry of war
burn the same as the ones that
killed him. Can our pride face
courage that lives in humility?
Odysseus killed the suitors of a wife
who could have demanded peace.
Death turned his words into lies,
the fear of life became his God—
he obeyed commandments of evil.
No men who shoot, are justified.
No thing is worth a life taken—
we live in nightmares of idiocy.
Battles against women and children
are the worst form of cowardice.
Choose to be human. Struggle not.
Welcome home, friend.
The war is over.
November 7, 2013
Since Dad said he will move
to the country, I’ll stay behind.
I love baseball mitts, the library,
Noyo Harbor fishing boats,
and the fog horn’s sad song.
I love volunteer firemen
and the town sirens, and
the clunk of Skunk trains.
I pull Paul Bunyan parades
in my wagon and hope to
become an orphan like Pip.
I offer my services on a sign:
Free Son Rental. Desires to live in town.
Plays baseball: catcher or second base,
rarely hits doubles. I hit errors real good.
Got kinda swell references from Cathi—
she says she doesn’t, but she likes me.
Never caught in bars or whorehouses.
Take correction by hand, not by belt.
I’m natural yellow haired so you know
I’m not Mexican or Injun or colored.
Reliable, of good cheer, and a wiseass.
November 3, 2013
Map of Madness
Sugar-Girl leaves, hungers
a sadness that eats him, and
waits no more at his door.
He fritters down the road,
searches gutters for change.
He points south, then north.
Weakness becomes his friend,
he turns dull, his head dips.
He stones a school bus.
Silence moans at mourning
so he screams No! into tunnels.
He whispers Nice voice
through sarcastic teeth.
He flips off a lit-up police car.
His map of madness shows
one road north and one south.
He takes one long breath,
imagines a chocolate stage,
songs from chocolate-girl lips.
His map turns brown, all
roads lead into his hands,
but he chooses north—
October 31, 2013
There is nothing so cruel as
beauty in the words of a poem:
it shrinks me, I become human.
Wisdom mocks the know-it-all
every time—every time I forget
I-don't-know is wisdom reborn.
I search for humility in sonnets
yet find it in your eyes every time.
Your silence mocks my words
as rain falls without prayers, as
death calls us back to the soil.