Writing
seeing jackrabbits
come right into the campsite
I belch, they scatter
~
infrequent raindrops
one here, now one over there
almost like weather
~
everything is damp
mosquitoes buzz in my ear
happy misery
~
a persistent rain
the wiper blades tilt and swoon
no birding today
Out camping in the Texas Hill Country until next week. It is raining today. I’m parked by the ranger’s station to leach some wifi signal. Don’t let the world go crazy without me.
a hollering cyclops
with a burr haircut escaping
from prison through
a drain pipe
(my latest gravatar)
I like the number eleven
because of the way it sounds
with its soft consonants
and unstressed vowels
and for the alliterative jingle
of its cousin multiples
a thing thrown in your face
so come back quick
jump, lurch, twist aside
the snap of teeth, a happening
elsewhere, the future is collapsing
into the past, but your name
it never comes up
A thing of beauty
is a joy for a
limited time
if you act now.
(another, lesser known, John Keats)
remixing memories for
a new take on a
shuffled past
(but there’s some things
I just can’t do
about you)
two smooth, cool eggs
one in each hand
cage free, supposedly
they to me, remand
a living sine wave
down hungry, up through fed
fox-like, I block all thoughts
of factory farming dread
birdsong erupting
from the bedroom, what on earth…
oh, the new ringtone
What was it were we doing
before we wandered into this?
Were we sidetracked then from something else?
What was it that we missed?
And what about the thing
that had diverted us before?
The project we were doing when
the knock came at the door?
Could it be that interruptions
nested one inside the next
continue to infinity?
Do you feel a little vexed?
self entanglement
pump handles and chicken shit
the Buddha’s eyebrows
༶
femur bone trumpet
a twitchy paper tiger
blurting out mantra
༶
all the leaky pipes
the conveyor belt churning
a big production
