
Friday, September 11, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Come Back To Me
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Storm Over County Road G

I
Beyond the furrows
ravens labored
on the dead ones.
Probed soft fur,
stopped,
looked,
preened blue-oiled tufts,
and drove towards the pines.
They left behind
the last rabbit litter;
sweet blank eyes
would have felt
the first drop.
Blunt on open graves,
under a galvanized sky
the rattling spigot ruptured.
II
We blundered
down the stairs,
soaked as peeper frogs
and sunk into the root cellar,
while centipedes scuttled
and cobwebs hung in our hair.
Here I shushed the children,
listened for the sounds of freight,
symptoms from the east
muted air tasted
like gun metal,
thick and yellow
as quince,
spumous and spreadable.
But no thunderous clap,
or concerto
in thirty-six black notes.
III The first flash
bore into Bertotto's field,
An indelicate bolt of light
splintered the pear tree,
stewed jam ricochetted,
steamed off the cattle gate,
crackled down
drooping wires
at the eaves,
into the telephone
and straight out of
old Mrs. Schulers'
hard muscled hand.
Beyond the furrows
ravens labored
on the dead ones.
Probed soft fur,
stopped,
looked,
preened blue-oiled tufts,
and drove towards the pines.
They left behind
the last rabbit litter;
sweet blank eyes
would have felt
the first drop.
Blunt on open graves,
under a galvanized sky
the rattling spigot ruptured.
II
We blundered
down the stairs,
soaked as peeper frogs
and sunk into the root cellar,
while centipedes scuttled
and cobwebs hung in our hair.
Here I shushed the children,
listened for the sounds of freight,
symptoms from the east
muted air tasted
like gun metal,
thick and yellow
as quince,
spumous and spreadable.
But no thunderous clap,
or concerto
in thirty-six black notes.
III The first flash
bore into Bertotto's field,
An indelicate bolt of light
splintered the pear tree,
stewed jam ricochetted,
steamed off the cattle gate,
crackled down
drooping wires
at the eaves,
into the telephone
and straight out of
old Mrs. Schulers'
hard muscled hand.
Giver
Lucid

She has all the telltale signs
of a houseplant.
Don't ask about Zen or Sartre.
Into the wooded glen,
unzips her Levi's
and lets him in.
The mosquitos
have triple
hatched
this year.
His thigh itches.
Thinks about Billy Collins.
"Taking Off Emily Dickenson's Clothes".
A study in detachment
of mother-of-pearl buttons.
Ivory lace folds down
to the floor around
sharp, white ankles.
Each piece of clothing
which fell
from her mouth
was a card laid on the table.
'Fifty two pick-up'.
They are both dreamers,
against the tree.
Eyelids half moons,
He of tulle,
Emily's breath and Collins.
She, weighing the possibilities
of plunging headlong
into the ravine below.
Just one slip from her bad hip,
grasping on to branches
which bend green in her hands.
of a houseplant.
Don't ask about Zen or Sartre.
Into the wooded glen,
unzips her Levi's
and lets him in.
The mosquitos
have triple
hatched
this year.
His thigh itches.
Thinks about Billy Collins.
"Taking Off Emily Dickenson's Clothes".
A study in detachment
of mother-of-pearl buttons.
Ivory lace folds down
to the floor around
sharp, white ankles.
Each piece of clothing
which fell
from her mouth
was a card laid on the table.
'Fifty two pick-up'.
They are both dreamers,
against the tree.
Eyelids half moons,
He of tulle,
Emily's breath and Collins.
She, weighing the possibilities
of plunging headlong
into the ravine below.
Just one slip from her bad hip,
grasping on to branches
which bend green in her hands.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Loss
"Betrayals during war are childlike compared with our betrayals during peace. New lovers are nervous and tender, but smash everything. For the heart is an organ of fire. For the heart is an organ of fire— I love that. I believe that."
[From "The English Patient. Reading Almásy's note on the Christmas firecracker]
Monday, July 13, 2009
Ebb by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
"Yet"
I sit down to eat a meal
but I am not hungry.
I am lonely,
so I tread down to the river
and lay on the grass,
feed on the sun
and the lapping water.
The seagulls overhead,
search for something
in wide, white arcs.
with his stomping leather boots and open shirt,
making love to my own soul on the grass.
So I take off my sandals, try in vain
to avoid duck shit
and feel the tender, giving earth
beneath my soles.
Sieze the grass in my fists
as if it were the wild hair of my lover
and wait.
But I do not love my soul yet.
boughs thrust towards one another.
Bleed in seamless, lilac shadows.
Leaves pursue the rippled water,
consoled by their own reflection.
Out of the mute dark
they labor the whiteness of roots
into a new century.
Allow themselves to be hollowed out
by disease and lovemaking
in order to bear the silence.
if he was able to love just one woman.
He craved
everyone and everything
and every portion
as if he were God himself.
My plight roots me here.
But I do love the world,
this grass, my river,
the fat, full ducks
who refuse my bread.
Written by K.
5/29/09
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Bare-stript Heart
From "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman
I believe in you my soul,
the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass,
Loafe with me on the grass,
loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want,
not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how once we lay
such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head
athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone,
and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard,
and reach'd till you held my feet.
Swiftly arose and spread around me
the peace and knowledge
that pass all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God
is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God
is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born
are also my brothers,
and the women my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love...
From "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Risk
Friday, May 22, 2009
Exiled In The Midwest

Nov 25, 2007
You received my letter today
and I wondered if you opened it
with your opposable thumb
or with a letter knife,
in a civilized manner.
Today, I turned
my palms up for rain,
to quench the thirst in life lines,
ease the drought.
Upon the ceaseless horizon,
the sun flicks lit matches
from east to west,
arsons the stripped fields
with its petty wants.
There are no valleys to trample,
nor Appalachians to curse.
Magic is useless here.
Even the foul breath of doggerels
pumping from the mill stack
dissipates into
this pure air of heaven.
You received my letter today
and I wondered if you opened it
with your opposable thumb
or with a letter knife,
in a civilized manner.
Today, I turned
my palms up for rain,
to quench the thirst in life lines,
ease the drought.
Upon the ceaseless horizon,
the sun flicks lit matches
from east to west,
arsons the stripped fields
with its petty wants.
There are no valleys to trample,
nor Appalachians to curse.
Magic is useless here.
Even the foul breath of doggerels
pumping from the mill stack
dissipates into
this pure air of heaven.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Finding Hiddekel
I might as well have landed
in the dry riverbed of Hiddekel.
There is an epiphany at eleven
that crying cannot save you,
even the gentle persuasion of hands
cannot comfort you,
places where voices will not reach.
Ultimately, gravity becomes your love-mate.
Then you understand fish will drown in air,
floating is only the memory of babies
and for those things
beneath the slick pebbled water.
Written by K.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Orpheus' Head Floating in the Wisconsin River
I'm drowning my love,
drowsing,
for Selene will sweep me away
on the eddies.
I'm still singing.
But now comes out a
croak, a rasp;
fat juicy bullfrogs,
drowsing,
for Selene will sweep me away
on the eddies.
I'm still singing.
But now comes out a
croak, a rasp;
fat juicy bullfrogs,
water bugs
skimming on silver skates
over my face.
While you were living your life,
I was torn to pieces
skimming on silver skates
over my face.
While you were living your life,
I was torn to pieces
by the Maenads,
crowned in snakes,
they were thrilled by the power
I handed over.
All because I slumbered
All because I slumbered
for a moment.
Tired of being good.
Weary of chirping birds,
the adder mocking me,
the deer licking the salt
out of my hand.
Now the eddy
is twisting me towards the bogs.
I am bodiless,
Tired of being good.
Weary of chirping birds,
the adder mocking me,
the deer licking the salt
out of my hand.
Now the eddy
is twisting me towards the bogs.
I am bodiless,
floating past tree stumps,
angel mosses,
by the occasional
by the occasional
bloated corpse,
purling about the sedge.
Heaving towards the duck weed.
I want to know the tenderness of hands.
The flesh over bone,
well formed fingers
and palms soft
over my own wrist,
up to my neck,
where they rest
I want to know the tenderness of hands.
The flesh over bone,
well formed fingers
and palms soft
over my own wrist,
up to my neck,
where they rest
for a moment.
Seamless,
in lilac shadows,
where I can feel human warmth
emenate from lips.
Then a flash of smile
before the plunge.
You might see me as I am really am.
The very core of me,
the heart of my heart
and not turn away.
But now place two hands
on the back of my neck
and lean me closer.
emenate from lips.
Then a flash of smile
before the plunge.
You might see me as I am really am.
The very core of me,
the heart of my heart
and not turn away.
But now place two hands
on the back of my neck
and lean me closer.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
In Memory of Steven
I slid under the vine,
crawled leaves dressed me
in beryl coats of Christmas,
your hand around my waist,
pressed me hard against clapboard,
and found the fluttering spine,
a hummingbird caught under palm.
My thighs nested amongst the prickers,
spun nests of lichen and spiderwebs,
begged at our feet,
I could hardly hear them at all.
Slip behind dark tents of hair,
shadowed nape of neck,
ruby throated,
concave under fingertips,
head tilted back as if to register
the weight of a grief
before your leaving.
My mother flicked the porch light on,
but in the spreading sun of bare bulb,
fire meted under glass,
you kissed me still.
Hawk Moths circled on one wing,
dancing on slats for the wild burning,
frenzied as black June Bugs
popped against the screen,
unreasonable but brave.
The sides of my tongue
lifted and quivered on
two elbows,
smelling summer rain.
All the unfurnished haunts in
my throat were filled up,
mistakes gulped back by
clouds of condensation,
our breath,
mingled with ivy.
I pulled you back to me while drowning,
but you turned to go,
for the full moon was impatient,
jealous for a covering like mine,
and paced for you outside.
crawled leaves dressed me
in beryl coats of Christmas,
your hand around my waist,
pressed me hard against clapboard,
and found the fluttering spine,
a hummingbird caught under palm.
My thighs nested amongst the prickers,
spun nests of lichen and spiderwebs,
begged at our feet,
I could hardly hear them at all.
Slip behind dark tents of hair,
shadowed nape of neck,
ruby throated,
concave under fingertips,
head tilted back as if to register
the weight of a grief
before your leaving.
My mother flicked the porch light on,
but in the spreading sun of bare bulb,
fire meted under glass,
you kissed me still.
Hawk Moths circled on one wing,
dancing on slats for the wild burning,
frenzied as black June Bugs
popped against the screen,
unreasonable but brave.
The sides of my tongue
lifted and quivered on
two elbows,
smelling summer rain.
All the unfurnished haunts in
my throat were filled up,
mistakes gulped back by
clouds of condensation,
our breath,
mingled with ivy.
I pulled you back to me while drowning,
but you turned to go,
for the full moon was impatient,
jealous for a covering like mine,
and paced for you outside.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Lake Singing

Unlocked,
Leviathan lies underneath,
huffing into the lip of a glittering bottle,
with resounding bass.
Skated in silver shavings
the descant slivered up
between whittled cricks of marrow.
Crackled,
lucid Bluegills disturbed,
their mud caftans joggle up.
Naked and gliding again
under slick sheets.
Taut,
beyond the bald look-out,
frozen sand in bas relief,
blonded with grass.
Over the ricks of rocks
rusted with iron,
to the covered pontoons
moored at the marina.
The pink-eyed moon
warmed the ice overnight.
Her hands chafed together,
chanting,
ladling libations to the cockcrow;
a sun too arrogant for January,
and too cool for July
must have cajoled
such joyless singing.
Leviathan lies underneath,
huffing into the lip of a glittering bottle,
with resounding bass.
Skated in silver shavings
the descant slivered up
between whittled cricks of marrow.
Crackled,
lucid Bluegills disturbed,
their mud caftans joggle up.
Naked and gliding again
under slick sheets.
Taut,
beyond the bald look-out,
frozen sand in bas relief,
blonded with grass.
Over the ricks of rocks
rusted with iron,
to the covered pontoons
moored at the marina.
The pink-eyed moon
warmed the ice overnight.
Her hands chafed together,
chanting,
ladling libations to the cockcrow;
a sun too arrogant for January,
and too cool for July
must have cajoled
such joyless singing.
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Language of Shade

Under the Pennsylvania Sycamores,
we gathered cadence
as the sun took pictures of our faces,
in flashes between branches.
Our cabin elbowed above the creek,
stilted on clay veins and curly fern.
Slats once painted hurriedly
in noon heat, brushed with army green,
the shade of men.
Remember the raspberry bushes?
Arched canes touched root to tip
and strode to meet us.
Prickled my mother's freckled hands,
I sucked my fat forefingers
and tried to pick as careful as she did.
We picked and bled and laughed, and then
she laid out each berry leaf like a wet dollar.
"See here"? Smooth on the porch railing,
weighted down with stone.
She put her hands on my shoulders.
I was a growing thicket
of admiration and anger.
My breasts were flat fronds,
woody weeds for arms,
ready to make way
through the earth, without regard,
and born to hurt her.
Envious of her grace,
in her shoulders and neck;
long boughs weighted with cares
hidden from me.
I wanted to rest in her cool shade,
but I would not let her know.
The water rolled in a cast iron pan,
as a crow, oiled blue and shimmering
picked berries from the basket.
"We will make tea", she said,
"When the leaves are dry,
under layers of sun."
And we were patient together,
my mother and I,
on the porch until evening came.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
For Barrie: Beyond the Fellgate

Released from this life to the next on January 8th, 2008.
Set to rest and remembered on January 21, 2008, 1:15 pm at Lancaster crematorium.
Beyond the Fellgate,
over yellow Celandines,
your boy legs must be pumping,
arms reaching,
to a Cumbrian sky
the color of Hoegaarden.
Someone calls out
"Neaw Joe, where ar yo beawn so fast?"
but still you run on, smiling
because no one can catch you.
I wonder if you have forgotten
your curries, boiling pots of rice,
sounds of boxing on the television,
steadily clicking computer keys.
Your voice was the hand on my shoulder.
I'm missing you even though
or the way you might have
slowly smiled at some idiocy.
You signed off "Stay Happy"
as if it were a choice.
I know that it must be
now that you are gone.
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