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And, so, we light up our smokes. Then, ponder the / shape and proximity to clouds of what escapes / our lips. Passing the time between the next / befuddlement, the fresh intoxicating despair, / the blindside moment of sublime wonder ...
Sometimes, you gotta go short, instead of long. A sampling of short poems and epigrams in advance of an autumnal reading amid the West Virginia trees.
As a writer, purveyor, and publisher of creative works, I am constantly wrestling with my ego’s desire to see such work as of lasting significance, a hedge against my own mortality. Yet such works, too, will soon pass on by and melt away, swallowed by the river of time. Here’s a video-poem about that.
On Inauguration Day 2025, I hereby pass along shareable memes and links suitable for this sad occasion. Because what comes after this day depends on us, not just him. Let's talk resistance, self-care, inspiration, and perspective.
The ocean is never still, so coming into its presence is an auditory encounter, as well as a vast visual one. Late one recent night, I rested in its grace, the tide's whoosh and companionable whitecaps a soundscape, a meditation, and escape from the onslaught of the breaking news.
Are we headed 'Hellward' or do watermelon-loving turtles show a better way. Plus, my new band plays one of the saddest songs ever written.
10 photographs from around the neighborhood, allied with quotations and excerpts that may or may not align, but it's all good.
Four things for your consideration: A rainy photographic street; a 'Gladiator Song'; meme on how grief abates a little; and an epigram of remembrance.
About the night I never slept with Allen Ginsberg and the interview, song and music video this yielded after our encounter deep in the West Virginia hills in 1983.
I am walking past the multi-culti shops and through the lively streets of Ann Arbor after dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant, living the good life. What's that flyer say? 'Open Mic Poetry'? And it's tonight?!
The boys were missing somewhere in the wilds of clubland in Rome. Perhaps dead. Or just dead drunk. I wrote one of my favorite songs that night, while worrying about their whereabouts as the Italian night deepened ...
A small thing, an unconventional view or a dry-as-bone chainlink fence might be just as much an aesthetic encounter with beauty as the theatrical sunset, a tea-rose in all its glory, or a fetching face.
Let's not talk about the moon anymore, but instead Solzhenitsyn's idea of 'political horror,' how to write a 'sorta memoir,' and breaking up with Twitter until the perp walk.
I want to see / if it is possible / to be a nobody / from nowhere. / Creating something / out of nothing …
I had to get out of town. Get lost, evade the race of human beings. Seek out geese and turtles, beavers and blue herons. Gunned the car 50 miles per hour, 70, 80. Slowed to make the left turn. Parked on white gravel near the trail head. The way forward was barred by a long rusted gate, hinged and anchored…
