Category Archives: 100 Poems

August 28

The black bird assembles out of achromatics where the green tiger meets lumbering blood bears on a livid road under moon, that mounted stone, buoyant as hunger. Whale eyes wink out the stars, briefly, and the sea floors rise like things that expel breath and cloud. What about him, the bear, red as stalemate? See […]

August 27

When they are not presence, out leaping stone to stone, we miss their artifacts. A gum wrapper, a cut nail, bunnies of dust. An ad means they were there, thought about going, thought about returning, worried about dark in the parking lot. A crumpled sock in a corner is an old frustration that speaks of […]

August 26

Winter politics– a drowning man reaching high for the sun through dashing crows

August 25

A cloud of crows crosses the sun, so like sagacious nails dragged on a window screen with casual passing. In fits, Summer rushes with the sound of wings, heats us for the silences of winter tinted blue and coming hard on the browning leaves. People watch them in the water glass, a shadow of crows […]

August 24

In fantasy land they eat melodrama like pudding and have eyes the size of coffee cups. On a corner, men carve faces from meat loaf and the citizens dream of frogs and hunger. Underground air drifts. It meets the grates out and divides into fifths and bleeds along the edges. The smoke’s white and the […]

August 23

a man will pick bones up by the river bank and call it fish benighting his knowing to the water with a smile and tip of a cap fooled to the last as the stars cut the sky into universe or butter see that glass one shatter into green, purple, crafty, that complication of phlox […]

August 22

I don’t know if it’s a sun I see through gaps in the summer leaves or crows chasing their tail feathers or a moon rising into autumn. This is how life passes with a play of shapes and the mild fingers of the seasons touching and leaving their prints on the hillsides where I watch […]

August 21

The surface of the sea becomes red feathers on the steady back and forth of the bear fired by the sun as he stops on the sand, says, why stop there? Dip your finger again and draw my loves, my children, my futures, my shadow in a lamp, horses playing on confetti, cats ambulating into […]

August 20

When out of mangos come parsley, cilantro, coral and craft, we know everything is some time seed. Ants march in line from a dark washout in the sky and the frog elopes with her mate to a dark corner of the village. It reminds me of the rich taste of laughing with fruit half chewed […]

August 19

In Chihuahua I saw a dog with yellow ribs and a face like a broken shovel. South, I saw her again, in an alley where children buried stones. I told my friend the dog’s following, daily, like an unfilled hole. He said it’s not the same dog just some everywhere dog with yellow ribs and […]

August 18

We will grow hard too like those ruins birds use to stand and watch the sand creep yearly close the sky out use the stones to write gifts in deeps where sounds and colors huddle like seeds, molecules, feather flocks, then burst like a thousand joys or paint strokes from the ruins daily

August 17

In the river glass he sees war go by in colors flat as paint chips, the moon hanging dry and eyeball white between two black branch cracks so serene as to call up memories of bodies hanging at the walls by bullet holes. After come faces that smile then glower at the stars, roll away […]

August 16

I saw a child struck by a car one day in the face, a small plastic toy on the beach: the child and the car. Borders broke that day and war persists for little more than fictions, futures, old neglects on the river shores where poems once played between pink and blue stone, laboring like […]

August 15

I lived in a small hole for a week. When I came forth a brown bird gave me a seed and clung to my finger with nails like kitten claws. That day I saw every autumn leaf on the taper of an oak.

August 14

One day I saw hosts of sparrows drop from a purple sky, went with that story, down alleys where cats lined cans for children to knock down late nights when the summer months burned and the light turned the mountain into a long orange storm. Walk the sidewalks when the city’s quiet. Chili and bread […]