Day 72
sing metal hull sing
on choppy spring waters
‘Sweet Surrender’ playing on the old radio:
down here where the rain makes sense
nothing wears away so fast yet more
vanishes every day, these bones, this skin
erodes and none of it means
much of anything at all
Day 73
dream then: a new eclipse
a downpour, a shadow
walk like new-Earthers
amidst the wasting world, old boots
across cracked cement conquered
by crabgrass and goose shit
but even still, there will be signs
that once people grew wings
and took flight
Day 74
breath deep into old machines
wait out the rust, that stink
of dead, gutted fish
unrealized dreams as we take up
pot metal swords we will play with
in the 2nd age of a bewildering childhood
Day 75
a world shrinks to pocket-sized
boiled down and dehydrated
and we must put on tired boots
take up our packs
discover a new one
Day 76
locked in and devoid of a season
drive headlong through a dirty rain
like dream fish fighting up river
home is there somewhere
under the world’s great wound
Category Archives: Days
Days 2025: Winter (66-71)
Day 66
the waxing moon gazes upward
eye of an exhausted parent
exasperated and watchful
Day 67
contemplate then how we
only we, on this side
of the flood wall
understand
the floating of the world
Day 68
this soup, life
marked by mud
called memory
Day 69
1.
overnight, the fox ran north
up the wharf, chasing life
between patches of darkness
on pools of artifical light
2.
an afternoon storm
the timber of spring thunder
rain on the back porch roof
the sound of ten thousand
tiny marching boots
Day 70
o moon contract into a round lead shot
the world is a gun barrel / am I eye
or target / or am I the bullet
waiting for blood and light
Day 71
rain always splits me
in half. I want to drink coffee
smoke my pipe, sit on the back porch or stand
leaning against in the doorway of an open garage door
count one-mississippi / two between
thunder clap and lightning
listening to the storm.
Days 2025: Winter (63-65)
Day 63
metal hulls dance, bump on winter waves
like old lovers at a class reunion
the wind acts bow and rosin
against the lines, they sing
Day 64
it’s lonely without the nightwalkers
they do not show themselves to me
spring is on the heel
but not yet splashed in the sunrise
and there is talk of what’s coming
though no one listens
Day 65
the air kissed
with a renewed sun
roaming herds of joggers,
placard wearing tourists
the momentum of the season
building: listen to the boiler burn
deep in the soul machine