poem 7 2017

April 7, 2017 § 4 Comments

out of the blue which is never exactly the case he called as if I’d been party to the chaos which overcame the inertia overcame the idleness of the afternoon not to mention intervening years and not knowing me from a Judi Goldberg I might not be or my not knowing him from the Robert Marcus he said he was and not being cast agley like imperfect strangers might be he careened headlong into the did I know JoseLuisSanchez all one word conversation started long before he called me and as out of the blue is won’t to be as if we were talking about the same man we once knew we found a common sadness
as if I’d just been thinking about him myself

collaborating and the art of it

December 1, 2014 § 2 Comments

In one of the many conversations about her (Lindy Low Le Coq) illuminating the V, I said she could spread out all over the page, that I didn’t care if it migrated into what might otherwise seem like the margin or the binding space, which is in fact what I meant,

b u t not e x a c t l y as it turned out since I didn’t want to poke a stitching hole into some very important part of her drawing, as if it were some kind of mistake, or disrespect, or not knowing what the hell I was, (or she was, or we were,) doing

and as the magic of it would be, the serif on the V was smack right kiss my ass exactly where the top hole was supposed to go, ack! or so it seemed at first glance, as in wrong,

until I realized that was a cross-X-purpose, which is to say once headlong into a project there is at some point no wrong, just another set of problems to embrace and to solve, and a forcing of ones hand at that whole business of other ways to look at it


and after ‘ohmygod what am I going to do?’ I decided since the pages were printed only on one side there was no reason they all needed to be recto (on the right side), and if I were to bind it as a verso page (on the left side) it would completely alleviate the problem of poking a hole in the V’s serif,
butand it would mean coming up with a facing page so it would sit as a glorious two page spread, which would give it some sense, and balance in a book that otherwise was completely one sided (!)

meanwhile also going on in the background was the book in its entirety still didn’t seem a cohesive whole,  and I had been looking for, or waiting for, just the right I didn’t know exactly what to tie it all together without it then seeming like I was telling a reader what the whole book should be saying as if I weren’t trusting you to get it, or trusting that I’d successfully gotten my ideas across, so

how exquisitely sweet it was then to come up with a just and unassuming solution to do both, which had I been oh so perfectly clear in the first place I would have missed

oh the art of it all




sunrises on the road

October 11, 2014 § 4 Comments

I’ve lost count
of the sunrises on the road and walking

as if to the river but to the infirmary as if on the path but
in the hall as if from my kitchen but from the cafeteria as if
with my favorite morning mug but a styrofoam cup instead
as if medicine woman grandmother curandero nurse

the sun paints my face

& I smile as how short is the distance or long
from one vision to the next

PenHouseInk vol 3, 2004


On turning sixty-five

September 21, 2014 § 3 Comments


solvitur ambulando

February 26, 2013 § 8 Comments

not doing it became not having done it and then
you, I start feeling like you don’t know where to start so you don’t and it accrues, like age
















the morning bird is back
the cat, not just any but our sweet sweet cat is still sick /ly
and the press needs a name.
and the, not just any but my gathering thoughts on the camino need to be gathered into a finished product, one might say book but book implies a fixed sequence, and I’m not sure I care, not sure it matters. not sure the sequence is fixed…but the not doing it is accruing like, age

now and then, revisited

March 17, 2012 § 1 Comment

an excerpt from now and then:

My mother too is docent. Keeper of the records in our museum, she balances the books again and again one last time. She’s been able, as is her undertaking, to pull the extraordinary from the mire, and what was once such an onerous task, pleases her now. Out of breath, from running up the stairs to the phone, she calls me, to tell me the news from old clippings. “When you live with things day to day,” she says, “the extraordinary and the ordinary merge. It was hard to see,” she says, “how truly great were the things that people did.”

Story tellers ourselves, we’d come to hear for the last time the stories told again and again.

read the whole thing here

we have a ruler

February 3, 2012 § 1 Comment

Where Am I?

You are currently browsing the old friends, in every sense category at here.say..