Saturday, September 22, 2007


On a dusty street, dry sun
aslant a warehouse floor
where crinkle filament
particles hover in a long white shaft
and deep in the dim within
a small boy holds his father's hand.
There round manila barrels
stacked rim to rim with
whiff of spice in the stillness,
cinnamon, cardamom, cloves
dust of paradise.

Soft vinyl tops a tall stool
edged with wide chrome
screw heads a pattern of bumps
under his fingers, legs dangle and
round seat spins at the health food counter.
One final revolution ends at
a large fluted glass of carrot juice
with froth of foam to make an orange mustache.

He lies across the back seat
feels the motion, the highway dark sky
gaudy neon constellations
a big dipper lager empties light by light
and instantly refills.
There the long tail comet trucks
rocket past emitting gravitational sound suck
strung along orbits, ribbons arcing
far into the night.

Sunday, September 02, 2007

Chief End of Man

(Response to Sunday Scribblings prompt, 'The End'.)

Back then was occasion
to unravel a tangle of twine.
'First find the end,' she'd suggest
and slowly she'd tease out the rest
knot by knot.

No place now for small ends.
Surround sound destiny
animates the wide wall screen.