I read all the Bukowski’s. He, impossibly, he
She is a fly on his back, waiting to uproot joy
Wishing not to relate so to his murky stream
Filthy accusations, a broken bottle to her
Large breasts, she, impossible, she notices
He was beat with a strop, I remember, I
We share pockmarks on our pasts, We
California Oranges, split love, Drinking, Us
We share a common History, Left Behind
Betting on the horses, dive bars, Dirty Streets
Haze in smog smog smog. There is no
Happy ever after, only lingering nothingness


“Inspired by Raymond Carver”


Early morning, when purple reigns
Slunk, slinking out of bed, feather
Light touches, a new day to inhale
My toes against the ground, to Savor
Coffee and warm carpet

It’s Washington in May, and Green
Everything breathes, heavy fuchsias
From the watchmaker and hanging
Baskets full of bramble, pitch Pine
Luminary orb, stretching trees

The dogs are hungry, little mouths
Yawn, Paul with his hammer, thump
The sun opens her arms and powers
On the world I stand, my feet bare,
That purple drawn into me.

Stinky mouths and bleary eyes
A teenage son says little, wrinkles
His mouth bent down to hold his tongue
From spilling out his love of night
Shadows the morning’s beauty


View from the Road (5/9/16)



I was born encased in concrete, the ocean spread
Before me she turned tricks in a carnival show
The bad family blues a rotten tune, tricksters
Hung her upside down, toes suspended in anger

I illuminated the beach and turned the page
It wasn’t enough to brighten the the long road
and I became a trickster myself, looming near,
A haunting refrain of the past, circular gaps

Southward she reached, her arms a perfect arc
The sky a canvas of aubergine, monolith sun,
Cinched eyes, blackened smog hung to the IE
A bowl of fire and smoke, a road from the ocean

Is Concrete my North way, briny shell homes
Closed-cone pines light the path, ocean salt
In my bones. Trickster mind, pitch soot lungs
A long road ahead, a path behind me undone

First Draft of “Northward”

Courtesy of (linked)

Silver bells hang from yucca string, bashing
my ankles to be heard in the desert

Once we used palm nuts, and the hollow
thuds spoke of the oncoming drought

Shuffling, a dancer blooming in the night
The ringing joins the wind, a creosote dream

We have to use peyote buttons to connect
Our hearts with the dunes and dust

The bells sing out an ancient song, thrum
through the bones under the white sand

My pale moon body is sinking, wide hips
stuck between the currents of the world

Am I a spirit dancer, or a wild horse?
Blood pounds, running a trail of sweat

Down the map, where they split me open
and let my juices spill onto the tiled floor

Mutilated life disappears against the ink veil
Buried, trouble not yet reduced to sand