Monthly Archives: August 2012

Me and Everything is Color continued


Just looking, knowing.
I’m here as paths, the clouds—things,
like anything all with you.
1+1=2. A grand metaphor of

this life. We are here to recall it
—love remains,
love—grey-black & white—
that first moment blurred

the world
I had tones so various
where the sea is

the memory, now
and forever (reach out, take it)
I want more, more of that.


Time stays patient if sun’s right
I can’t locate nothing

without you. Night is still, nothing
so strange, some specific balance

—forever an idea. Couldn’t guess it, life’s
imponderable echo, but know
nothing is left
a thought. I’m enough that isn’t

beyond the moment, the remnants
of old desire.
There’s nothing more true as now

the moon
will still persist
to say it best or else


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Filed under Erasure, Experiment, Form, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, Summer, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

Me and Everything is Color


It’s night now
a grey blue voice, speaking
My life is its own condition.

come by when I’m gone.
I’m here
, I’m singing still
to the sink,

dear. Hard to believe
each night new
I loved you
—body, inside,

out—for me and I DON’T WANNA.
I shouldn’t do more than that.


Leave my heart
in a bucket
on the ground.

Head’s a waterfall
—purple lights illuminating
a possibility—


I wanted to start
again from some time-stream
still in mind. There’s a possible heaven
in this place.

I’m going to find
a big-assed fresh sea breeze—
waiting for night
and what it means.


Where I’m going
has a home, of things,
and you. I love you, still, to be something
to love.

You’ll love me,
love, enough to
when you can think
it halfway through.

I’d choose you each time.


I need some voice,
her voice, to be happy
hear her voice

to be human unchanged
in memory, light
as air—open and warm.


All quiet here
day after day
thin faint clouds dance

to find can’t make love. Who am I
—one, the smallest of that feeling
wanting a meaning

There are words I want
still in cement,
thoughtful. I’m sitting, writing

this simple one—the wavering places.
Come with me,
this morning again.


Still some quiet.
Give me something
to look at.

I was something. I could touch
all your love
day’s first light

open to me
big endless spaces.

I don’t care. I trust you
day after day
with curtains drawn.


Who the hell echoes
the sun, round, soft
sounds going round
myself in lateral tiers—love,
in red, it’s all forgotten—


Blue summer’s come
unsteady when drunk
with wondrous voices—thin
delights to bring you
the small spaces in the sun

eloquent, my heart
my funny valentine

coming home again.


KISS ME. Kiss me hard
with the past

all goddamn day
there, now here—


Today without sun. You’re only
all there is. Here I am song,
a thing and I was something
by which light shined for
whatever there was.

(experiment with a book of poems by Robert Creeley. August 28-29, 2012. Ann Arbor and Waterford, MI.)

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Erasure, Experiment, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, Summer, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

I was a tree house Sonnet

When I was a tree house a blizzard
occurred to me I am going
to be loved
green and gray
all the way upward through time and to everywhere.

I’m partway there. I am blue.
I don’t have complementary colors and I can’t watch
the full moon. I, a cartoon something, understand the feeling
as it swells. You’re my cutie.

It’s almost midnight now,
it’s snowing. We already know this very moment
The stars are water and plenty and happy

to make the bed your secret (yes, that’s it)
with your fables that suggests heaven is still
fresh with fairies and a little doggie.



(experiment with Ron Padgett’s How to Be Perfect)

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Filed under Erasure, Experiment, Form, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, Summer, Writing

Noun Love Letters


I just saw a beetle bounce out of the grass. I don’t know why I started this note with a beetle bouncing out of grass or why I didn’t write wriggled. (I just like those Bs next to each other.) But… I’m thinking of you. And your dress and the lightning from last night. Perhaps your dress had lightning in it as my pocket is filled with electricity. Now

I am thinking of how your fingers are filled of dawn. Of hope.

I hope I remember to get the ghosts out of my refrigerator before I see you again.



I have a beard of grapes and I love your ice cream lips. I especially love your driftwood eyes and when they land on my land, and how your little arms are little beds of snow and babe, I want to fall all over your land. If you know what I mean. (Wink.) I mean

your voice is a picnic in my ears and I want to carry your heart in a little box in my pocket, love burning with the odor of twilight



I’ve been trying to bracket off my radiator mouth but there’s too much grease in it and a rubber bell that rings like an ice cream truck muffled by my wool throat.



Call me Roberto, and I’ll be Roberto. Call me granite because I’m hard to cut through, though

I hope if you call me skull it’s because I’m in your head. Call me insomnia and I’ll be in your bed. Call me a grenade and I’ll be an explosion like those in Afghanistan till you feel my love in your teeth at night while you sit on the porch, watching lightning strike the grass as you feel the wind comb through your hair to graze your face as I am both a grenade and the wind at night.

Love is no mirror, it’s a pit and you’re the pit

of a peach that I want to taste as night begins I multiply more than electricity. I don’t care what you call me, as long as you call me. Love



There’s not much to write about today.

Last night I sat on the porch and watched the lightning comb through the sky.

DTE turned off the electricity yesterday and I have grapes and ice cream and ghosts in the refrigerator that I must eat soon. Shall we have a picnic?

I am heating the house with driftwood I gathered from the beach and I found my heart there, too. Weird. I thought I left it resting on the radiator.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Friends, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poetry, Prose, Summer, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing



I am happy on the hillside
and you are
all a blur.

You are so [         ].
(Complete the word.)
I don’t know.


I didn’t want to speak
of certain things, how
all the days burned
so cheaply as a symbol.

Already it’s time and nothing is
on the beach. Desire is
a moment long enough for a hand without sweet-talk
in the mouth


I didn’t notice the
fragile things. Color begins from

the season’s memory of
desire turns into a river.

I am called lava and water.
I am everywhere.


You are my light
sparkling up, coming back home.
Say: here is room
enough for you
and an orange.
I miss you. In the summer

everything becomes
never any closer, not quite there,
far too much
in the present
I could be the night unfolding
that place where sound is a… hush now.

I’m hot as hell, thin and
lonely with the hope… I don’t know.


Some nights,
I come back home
to scrape heaven’s
kind of silence

thou shalt not
take this sound

filled with mist to
appear infinite falling in love

with a tongue, falling in love
each morning, shaping
this small place and I said like a child:

The rain begins
promising continental breakfast.
I am gourmet in my bed.


The wind simply takes you
to all the scattered ideas,
once home not home yet
maybe of love, one is plenty.

Tonight, I was a little bird,
brilliant and something beautiful.
I said wait, stay with me with broken metaphors.

No—I wanted a tale free of the hypotenuse,
the tricky algorithm.
I can’t deny the flowers
in your blue tongue stuck with sweetness.

I had made something like this,
a whole life, in the dark.
Love, you can sway, it’s summer.


The eucalyptus trees
in my heart could be loved
if I could
be a priest.

(experiment with the Fishouse anthology.) August 14th-17th, 2012. Reconstructed in Ann Arbor, Milford, Waterford, White Lake, Michigan.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Friends, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, Summer, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing