O Divine Succulent Redeemer

what mystical fortuitous breeze landed
me here in this barbed Shangri-la
never to be pissed on
never to be plucked

milk in my veins
I rise with aplomb
I may be a puffball at heart
but here buttressed I'm dent de lion

I am Jesus
crowned with thorns
I am Buddha
foreseeing enlightenment
but at present call me Darwin
deselected for destruction

forster’s tern

with riverbank trees blocking the low summer sun 
the tern surveyed, up and down and around, 
peering around corners of light, looking, 
looking down on the here smooth and shaded Umatilla

            river of recovery

diving now, wings falcon swept,  
it breaks the glass 

not to go deep deep
there is no deep deep here
but just deep enough 
for a snatch of silver

two minutes later it's back
looking, looking.. 

Life above Pocatello

Now and again we dress
for dinner in Nomex

kyoo-myuh-low-nim-buhs         boom

Not because it’s sexy
but because it is aromatic

kyoo-myuh-low-nim-buhs         boom

Though it’s vivid on the deck
with dramatic light and views
the vacillating winds
and familiar hues
say be ready

kyoo-myuh-low-nim-buhs         boom

for groundstrikes

kyoo-myuh-low-nim-buhs         boom

Our scanner is attuned
as is Pandora
(ad free thanks to an add on)

We sit down for
Veracruz-style tilapia & farro
with zucchini, tomatoes and pickled jalapeno
the wine is zesty and tropical
Dexter Gordon plays Cheese Cake

kyoo-myuh-low-nim-buhs         boom



Owen, our downcanyon friend
with fire station ties texts
“sounds rough but stormtrack looking good”

We relax a little

“thx! come up later for ice cream and pie. marionberry. bring shelley”

kyoo-myuh-low-nim-buhs         boom

This evening’s stormtrack for us
-unlike the less fortunate
whistlestops of
Inkhom and McCammon-
is soundtrack only

Art Blakey sets himself afire

kyoo-myuh-low-nim-buhs         boom     Ba Da Boom


I opened the door and
found two summers waiting for me

I opened the door and found
a shortcut, through blood,
to your vice

I opened the door and found
wingless angels
on the lawn

I opened the door and
found butterflies
flailing in hot tea

I walked outside and
mapped the flood plains
of Mexico

I walked outside
flanked by
sparrows and skunks

I drove to the
illumination of history

I drove to the oaks
of barbarism and lies

I drove over bridges
laced with snakes

I parked near
hints of reality

I parked near
a litany of losses

I walked to
plastic saints

I walked to
stony memories

I fell in
love with Beethoven

I fell in
bed with ferns

What comes of
whole creation

What comes of
lightning clouds

What comes of
wind on beaches

What comes of
rolling spume


Sod Webworm 107

I don’t know
I’m depressed
I can’t go hiking
or biking
or do anything except
harvest bittersweet nightshade
and play with the roots of hemlock

so lonely now
so lonely now
so out of sorts now
so lacking now
so what now

we move
on to something different
something more/less satisfying
something more/less gratifying
joysuffering awaits

a practice

poetry, a countermeasure