Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Read It and Weave

If the sun on my back
had fingernails,
if the wind whistled in the Dorian mode,
if the kindness of paper to my pen
could sing, then
my good foot would climb goat sure
the rock wall and my garden ticket, creased
and thumbed, allow the guards
to open the gates
of Pelican Bay State Prison.

But the hunger strike, these fifty days,
avoids light, masks the iron shadow
and confines all to a windowless
warp of the soul.

"No one lights a lamp
and sets it under a basket...'
but if you lift even a lip of the woven stories
there is light enough,
to read.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Getting Directions

A string of naked ladies,
the pink flower,
face away the ridge road.

Orange sunset spent
on the odd nude

The ocean, not a mile away,
but the hill parched
for August.

Our blanket catches shooting stars,
nameless steaks
scorch the night.

Their Father, our Father, knows them,
but for us it's just point at heaven
and awe.