Saturday, November 22, 2008


On the day I was wrong
about everything,
far from Jesus feet
perfumed by the penitent,
I loosened my shoe
rubbing the dust of the world
from my soul.

What should've been love,
tore like a blanket,
stained coffee dark,
heart bitter.

This husband,
reduced to a mad pissing boy,
woodshedding tears,
wringing the too late truth
from a dish towel
after spoiling supper.

You don't make up for this,
the rib is missing,
apple bit.
Sit sunken in a cornered couch,
watching His wash basin
circle the upper room.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Aqua Caliente

Hot water with kale and wide noodles
is soup.
Steep comfrey leaf with raspberry
for tea.
A basin with soap bar
makes a bath.
Only by itself is hot water
considered trouble.

Walk/Don't Walk

There's new blue paint
splattered in the crosswalk.
I don't know if its representation
of where Eula Long was hit,
or if its random pigmentation.
Fifty feet of pedestrian yo-yo,
the body whistles by,
an elder loon voice
broken by inattentive steel.

I heard the story
just a week before she died.
A lithographer, Eula went
to poetry seed when blind hands
refused paper and pen.
More barbed than the bark
of Saint Burbank's roses, her crone croon 
recorded "Cats and Doggerel",
just eight years short
of a very personal