Population — On Oregon Stand Off

320 million lonely sparks of light
shine for each other and sometimes
by themselves, without an audience
All moving, mostly circumscribed
though some go astray, some falter
some spin off, colliding with others
destroying along their broken path
some take, also breaking the calm,
unto themselves what is not theirs
some simply benignly sink or fade
while others burst froth great gouts
of explosive heat in a last dying gasp
to be something bigger than designed
to be something grander than planned
to be something other than another
in a big crowd, all too homogeneous
all so the same, and all too proscribed.

The Monster Behind the Door

Behind the door, open almost always
are small black puffs of Labrador hair
flecks of white, red from a couple pits
maybe a strand or two of husband/wife
brown, his being a bit darker than hers
a small but growing mass, protected
behind the door, open almost always
hidden from view and from broom
which too infrequently makes rounds
a mass of hair, gathering unto itself
like a beast gestating in a dark lair
unleashed only by closing the door


Images of a Flood Plain

Spontaneously staged videos
rigged reality filthies facets of life
Oozes slow into the small cracks
like water seeping though walls
it’s just a trickle that introduces rot
and drenches dreams and dirties fantasy
stains shiny aspirations like rust on chrome
Flooded plains of our resolve, putrid with rot
with no vision of higher ground, we drown.

Log Jam

Days flow down and away
river jammed packed with logs
groaning together on the raging
waters from head of the flume
to the gated and closed bottom
groaning under pent up pressure
as if influenced by their own desire
to be free of the muddy slippery banks
and confines from shore to distant shore
to sail alone, with time to stretch, peacefully,
one at a time like a swimmer bobbing along
on the changing whim of the comforting current
finally being pushed downstream through the delta
into a the wide open raging sea to be confined no more
by shores but left to wander on one wave after another


often, like identical snowflakes

we form the same thought

snowflakes generated apart

under differing influence

but yet the same in shape

size and intricate pattern

said not to be possible

but I have seen it myself

right there, when you text

saying, pick up xzy or abc

and it’s already in the cart

or when I start to explain

and I stop cuz you get it

without words or looks

it’s already formed there

like it was my very own

formed there without seed

just happened to appear

exactly the same somewhere

somewhere other than here

On Writing Drafts of Poetry

A few words caught
in the gossamer net of thought
On constant replay,
“The winnowing whistle of the wind”
or “Light licks it’s way up the wall”
tickle like a feather
poking through a down comforter,
emerging, trying to be born
by archaically setting them to paper
or virtually speaking, typed to screen
prompt more words like water on seeds
a growth of lines, organic and fragile
stretch out in all directions,
needing to be trained, like grapevines
stretching along a post,
massaged into place on the page
so they present the best stanzas,
the choicest and fullest fruit
to take to market and sell.


a glade of used water glasses

surround Burrito bit blanketed dinner plates

dirty from last night last minute TV time feeding

flanked by a large blue bowl – one of set — redolent

of her meal — dehydrated snakelike raman noodles

and Monday’s night’s frying pan, flecks of cheese fried on

from homemade quesadilla night, quick easy meal

tonight, sushi, no clean up