Straight To Screen


memory is a monument

for viewing

and fantasy

something for the squinting.


The split-life contained

in viewing/reviewing

and solving/resolving

is once again failing.


And now with life

more fully invested

in thinking towards

the ending

as the beginning fades

from view

and first stanzas

are stranded somewhere in dust

as these new words

hope for much better luck.


Hours In the Skin

There are hours in the skin

minutes and seconds


building to years


And as foreign hands

cross the surface

hoping to soften

and comfort

then undo



The reaction

comes as mountains


topped by fine hairs


through wormholes

further confusing

the understanding once understood

about quantum



(This is a re-post from

Biscuits And Gravy

A Re-Visit to Donald Hall’s Bangers and Mash

as found in his latest collection -The Back Chamber

Rode bus across the plains all night, head

with hair still long, leaning

against cold window, then on foot

to a hostel.  Couldn’t sleep,

had a beer at noon, and rode the streetcar

from bottom to top of that SF hill,

and never for a moment thought

about taking a lonely picture,

then bused up alone to Spokane

where it looked like the bomb landed and drank

pints of the cheap shit before ever meeting anyone new.

Back at the station, used the phone

as light disappeared and all that was left was a gap

where sun had been and a head could’ve been

between shoulders and cheekbone,

instead in windows without curtains,

this nose, and understated chin,

and plain eyes -dazzled by a ‘maybe’

but sleepy, the assuaged eyes, soon closed

as the blink was all that came knowing the ear

one day would hear- “everything is lost.”