Tuesday, December 05, 2017


Sure there are eucalypts but they seem as out of place as we do.
                                                                      —Cassie Lewis 
I have joined
the leagues:
I am grooming
at the public
library.  I am,
to be precise,
clipping my finger-
nails into a can
of trash near the
poetry section.
But this act
definitely falls
easily under the
category of The
Leagues Who
Groom Them-
selves at the
Public Library.
Next thing you
know, I’ll be tak-
ing a sponge bath
in stall number two
on floor one – in
the only public
restroom at the
public library.
When I last used
to come regularly
to the main library –
to browse the poetry
section, no less –
I would often refer
to the men’s room
as the homeless
showers.  The next
thing I know....

Sunday, December 03, 2017


Achizm #3

     It’s been days since I opened the book
     my face is watching.

                                               —Cassie Lewis

always peeking

down the wrong
hedgerow /
at the most

Tuesday, October 31, 2017


One Night Stands
                               (Achizm #2)
can occur (to
the transformed;
to the spectator
of the transformation)
as immediate, an immersion
into inversion, yin becoming
yang; yang, yin.  The cockroach
lies flat, content, as it (mostly)
covers the nuclear reactor.  The
nuclear reactor sits silently in the
distance, chugging, as if making a
joke of its very own silence, of the
cockroach atop it, here, in the middle
of a state that lies somewhere in the
middle of a country.  All passersby
pull their automobiles over just
to spectate; to participate.  It is,
as always, a beautiful day.  Each
of us are part of the beauty, and
so we whisper:  “Gorgeous!”  “Ama-
zing!”  “What a spectacular day!”

Friday, October 27, 2017



              (Achizm #1)
And then…
I wanted to hold
the smoke – the
of special breath-
ing smoke – way

up high.
over the elk
standing frozen
an the mountains’
large winter-
time cliffs
where they
the fogged
bluffs of


Sunday, October 22, 2017



it not
for a
bit of
. . . .
If this
isn’t re
I’ll never

Saturday, October 21, 2017


     Do other people 
     not know where they think 
     they are when they do? 
                                —Sue Landers  
The ear thing today is 
nice guys finish last.  In 
this fantasy (the paper- 
work within paperwork), 
my being does not live 
me.  Yep, here I don't be  
me (a recommendation I'd 
reckon).  I don't live. 
But yet, the opposite, 
which expands beyond 
the opposite, does not 
become the infinite, so, 
therefore, does not ache 
Like existence; like expansion. 
Hollywood demand:  expend $$ 
for new transformer. This could  
be the one with which you blew  
up the transformer in the last  
episode (the prequel?), 
with which you blew up the  
transformer personified.  How 
could you?!, I implied!  At 14 
years of age.  in 2008 or 9. 
Room number 217 or 217 
and a half.  RUN LIKE HELL 
out of Miami.  Who does 
That?  Come to think of it 
who runs like hell out of 
Miami.  Maybe you were 
simply running (maybe 
still are) from Sears & 
Roebucks to Miami.  An 
utter conclusion. I think. 
In this fantasy exists a  
couple of pieces of  
paperwork about  
ivory.  And how I 
chipped a couple of 
teeth saber-rattling.

Friday, October 20, 2017


Why Am I Always Saving Myself?

Hello from here.
How is there?

Wednesday, October 04, 2017


We are mirrors holding up the sky. You are watching,
you are holding me.
Inside is a wolf running across the ice.

                                                                  —Cassie Lewis

Ha, nah, brawn ka?
He looks at it. He thinks
about it. But he cannot

say it. Ice age rivulets.
Torpedoes dun as burghers
aim for the rhapsody of

dust above the plains
above the docks above
the ice caps amid

screaming rockers. Arch-
nemeses. Amanuenses. A
man you insist you trust-

ed in terms of agelessness
makes meatballs potatoes (the
cow having already been fatted).

Friday, September 22, 2017


          Small colors are the life of coping waters
                                                        —Cassie Lewis

If, perhaps, one looks around

to examine S M A L L . . . . .
If I look.  The buses have
more volume, less space.
All of our prisoners
have escaped the
frontiers.  Life is rising
from the garden, for
example.  Look how
the eggplant sprawls,
enveloping surface,
until it bursts.  I am
the error in the garden
of small.  Small colors
are only half real, if
that.  Yesterday, as I
continue to punctuate,
is memory.  Only that.
And memory becomes
a midden ———
a mountain of youthful
adventure (useful ad-
venture?), of feast
and (rarely) famine,
until the memory
dislocates, at first
dissolving into some-
thing very small, then
into a nothingness
only a volcano might
keenly recall.  I
recognized the turtle,
its protruding green
meat, as if it had just
escaped from the local
zoo.  As if it had just
been to the zoo. 
I looked on as it ——
ventured? —— in awe
of the mass of
profusion coming
from such a
shallow hand-
crafted shell.