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Saturday, November 13, 2010

The Moon

- autumnal musings on the Four Mile Canyon Fire, 2010

The moon is the moon

whether pale as pumpkin seed

or smoke red. The moon swells,

a plum, it ripens blushing

with sunset or dark as a bruise.

Why bemoan what changes, what spins

the stars into unending darkness? Only what passes

endures, what we hold will be lost.

Flames on wind shriek through trees,

ashes all we possess, and still we go on.


Sunday, November 7, 2010

I Came Here

in a ninth century
sports car formerly
owned by Ivar the Boneless.

It runs on ice water
and has a Viking horn
hood ornament.

I drove through words,
my tires hissing words
over hills of words.

The ribbon of asphalt
snapped me to you
like a whip.

I flew over mountains in a toy
airplane losing my hair
on the bald peaks,

it's rubber band engine
whirring like cicadas after
a twelve year nap,

revved up and hungry,
a spinning dervish
dizzy for your love.

I climbed without fear
the hollow blue of loneliness
into inner space.

My mind sucked
into a vacuum, my eyes
smoldering like falling stars.

I put my breath
behind me
to move on.

I rode the Titanic through
iceberg after iceberg
each the size of a hundred

Manhattans to find you.
I stayed mostly underwater,
held my breath for centuries,

floated face down
cold as a splintered reed
in the icy heart

of a saxophone.
Now I open like fog
in the sunlight,

with your hand
warm on my shoulder
I turn to meet your lips.

Each day all is new.
The ancient sax
howls outside my sun

splashed window
thick and golden as honey,
brings me to hear again.