I don’t know. Maybe. inch inch inch.

Giant footfalls nearby. Gravity shifts. Miles lost.

Pitiful efforts achieve pain in hand.

Keep one in hand. Small measure.

(Better than two in the grave?)

Then more dreams of going, 

Dubious of venturing from the cool under this one leaf…

morning announcements

There was a peaceful moment
just a little agony over facing the inevitable struggle with eggs or cereal
I even pulled up the shade on the back window for a rare look
and the bare fingers of the spindly trees posed against a long lit cloud for a two-tone fashion
subtle greys bottom and brashly contrasting summery top.
Then, there was a scratching at the back door
Did the porch cardinal suddenly decide to present demands?
No, scratching to the left and right there are never so many birds (would that, as we were just)
No. It was the wind again.
The director called strike this set
the cat started yowling again
or the cat was the director, I confuse
That cloud was rolled out stage left tout suite
Hold onto your hats

Sketchbook – Vol. 1 Part 2 – Chapter 6

Still in my late 20’s (in the late ’70s). A LOT of writing, saying it all, back before these truths and lies had become self-evident and then I didn’t see why I should keep writing it. And my hand didn’t yet hurt too much to hold the pen. Then, finally, evidence of attempted graphic composition: what would become my second lithograph.

When I was completely unmoored, at 28 years of age. Never to quite return.


Oh a Tree Corner – “Fall” (from The Seasons, early draft)

For some reason I kept hearing about poetry on radio and TV today. Went and looked in the occasionally lugged along legal pad, and sure enough there was a scrawl from just about a year ago I guess. so I typed it up with just a little second-draftism and here it is being shamelessly squeezed into the inter-tubes. Possibly part of my seasonal cycle.

so, then it was fall for awhile – (let’s call it Fall.)
 not just the leaves, something, things, else is falling
Maybe longer than usual, I hear but
here we are so close to the end seems like nuthin’
Last good day, maybe, probaly falling falling
Last good day of this round who knows
if it will go around again
I see it falling chalk dust falling
behind the lake
Sure it was so beautiful, those few moments
When I got out
Heartbreaking at sundown,
hue saturation so cranked up
the crinkle of the vegetable kings’ violated borders so sharp and rough
even these old eyes can feel.
The bleeding heart of clouds, bleeding sweet wine
(for all the good you bleeding hearts do us untouchables)
the overacting of the leaves’ death dance in stage makeup
the tiny flush of rose from within dark draperies.
life shrouds floating around that young woman across the street.
Does she see the sky like I do, also sticking a tongue out to try to catch a drop?
does she see how I see the sky?
How sweet would it be to be walking with her at this moment.
(oh? Like I always say, good to be alone at a time like this)
What juicy world juice we could pass back and forth.
I bet it could make this paper sack I carry my senses in seem like a velvet purse.
But no, not now, most of then and and then neither;
Mostly just a few flashes in the darkness. and whiteness.
Now it’s the white again, falling down across
the backdrop.
Just the first light coating of pastel.
I see it filling in as I reach the lake
so thick with family funflies just the other day,
now all wide open & clear – guess that’s
how the landscape goes:
First the people , pfft, gone,
then the rest slowly faded
as the whiteness falls..
layers of chalk, or maybe it’s that asbestos-laced talc I used to
shake onto the litho stone
drying the ink; now that i think…
   That looked like this – the image gradually disappearing- 
     but the little horizontal block now raised on edge and
       stretched from edge to edge.
and my skin separates and stands up
 white, white, white
   preparing for when it floats up to
      meet the snow.
Before the talc sinks in the grain
 gets coated by dust and soot, ink and earth rising around the flakes.

 here it comes, here it comes
    comes the gray, darker darker
lovely charcoal smudges hover over
 the cloudy folks in the shiny street.
today on the heading out bus, looking down to the end
  wasn’t raining but the sky looked damp, straggling clumps of leaves losing the last of their yellow, leaching
    “It’s turned to soup,” I thought.