not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Monday, April 18, 2016

Saturday, April 16, 2016

Monday, April 11, 2016

Saturday, April 9, 2016

6 pm april, from the bridge

Wet Evening In April

The birds sang in the wet trees
And as I listened to them it was a hundred years from now
And I was dead and someone else was listening to them.
But I was glad I had recorded for him
      The melancholy.

by Patrick Kavanagh

Monday, April 4, 2016


between equinox and solstice

the corn is a cleric's carnival of cranes.
crouched beside it i feel flagellated 
by their arcane ardor, 
this occult gathering, 
these ashen cowl covered brothers
each like the next,
extending ladders and lowering themselves
into the antiquity of gold rush beside me.
i am only a person. i can't see far.
but wave after wave of flock
advances, then cuts itself short,
descending, disappearing into the folds
but for the cries.
what do they cry of? 
i am only a person. i can't think far. 
but as they descend so willingly
into the embrace of fields turning to dust
all i can think is - how this otherworldly trust
gravely thrust downward  
from the unceded heavens
toward earth?