swimming trunks

hotcake foreheads
the beads on my brow
sweat lodge under arms

salt lick of a sky
counting gulls to sleep
on a colorful towel

the sand on that fat man’s ass
blows free as he stands
getting into our eyes

sprinkling our sandwiches
the fat man’s name
is probably Sanders, I mutter

no, you shut up
the gulls are laughing
they think it’s funny

she rolls her eyes
then squints them tight
fat man ass-sand

is everywhere now
the scent of his suntan oil
in our noses

the grit crunches as we chew
it was your idea to
have lunch in the dirt

your idea of the ocean
replenishing some essential
minerals in this maladapted

asthma-ward nurse uniform
of a relationship long ago fallen
ill watching late night TV

oh fuck all, give Sanders
the rest of this chicken salad
and let’s just go

she’s getting angry
why must we always fight
at the beach?


I can believe what I see
if I can believe that I’m seeing it,
but the sun is too much
the work-a-day schmo to worship.

I climb over that ridge
in the morning too, and
nobody thinks anything of it.

True, sometimes I’m late.

Image is from a pinhole eclipse viewer that I am still working on, even though the path of totality will not pass directly over this errant human head of mine. It will pass well to the north of me, and godspeed to these heavenly bodies, especially the moon, who will single-handedly blot out the sun and then quietly stand aside as everyone whispers, “oh, solar eclipse!”

wordling herds

the words you select
may like sugar confect
or like rain, bring an end to a drought

they may also inspire
indignation and ire
or weaken the knees of the stout

if a word feels right
as it slips past your bite
then that’s good enough, have no doubt

if your meaning got skewed
and it started a feud
you may just get boxed in the snout

but don’t second guess
at your word salad mess
if your audience won’t come about

at the end of the night
they will quibble and fight
so be even, there’s no need to shout


electronics chiming, beeping
calendar boxes addressed to us
reminders joining, streaming
it is all an insentient reminding

reminding me of something
the watched pot ever boiling
calling things to mind
sorely lacking for things, this mind

like things won’t come anyway
bursting in unsummoned
like water won’t seek
won’t join its own level

at least a paper calendar
can be twisted into kindling
that burning, hisses at the touch
of remembered raindrops

what are gods if not remembered
what is power, outside of
obedience to memory
what is the next thing

the corrections of matter, atoms
seeming indivisible memories
and forgetting our way in
breaking, entering, knowing

what shall I do
come these demands to my
bed, nudged from this sleep: the domain
of unknowable appointments

rushes are meeting, courting, mating
broods of baby rushes, feeding
reminds me all of something
temporarily lifelike

Prime Time

the even number community
bolsters pride
in its fabulous wealth
of integer factors

as the prime number
elites remain aloof
in the rarefied air
of exclusivity

the algebraic equation
is a bit smug
having solved for X
in an abstract balancing act

and the methods of calculus
have long forgotten
their perch on the shoulders
of the lowly plus and minus

the mathematics of movement in
all these dreams
persists after dawn
in the calculating daylight

the illusions within their
clouds of persistence are indeed
a wonder to behold
with or without the proofs