near april


near april near dusk

sky soaked in greys

sly snow retired birds

reclined dogs sorrow paws

us & we as bleak hostages

+ the trees still nude are

pretending to be dead

arthur sze. poet


arthur has a voice

slender as water

necessarily adept

at singing the terrains

with in his poetry



a man i know

works the rails

in negro light

and talks with

lanterns to the

coveralled cadre

.. all whom hurl

the massive cars

nightly toward

the mystery

of industry



i have seen her

walk thru towns

charcoal lady

taking the

moderate approach



i have seen her

walk near trains

woman trojan

coolly resolute



by plazas’ dusk

by a hollow moon

.. with out fear

with in courage



so i walk the paseo

friday morning february

and i swear a cloud fell on me

and it did not even ever hurt

car. haiku


the car be●hind is

all win●dows dark save for a

shape●ly hand steer●ing

lisa. painter

houses folded in hills

sky below mountains

birds triangled there


lisa could say:

~ sky is ever everywhere ~

houses below desert

trees beneath houses

mountain slow snow


thru the medias –

oils graphite prints

lisa sees what we

should see (sigh)



it will not make a difference

a diffident or a cooled look

will not dissuade her

this this woman of charity

she was born in touch with the world

so she cares for woman man tree

delivering comfort thru her care

sally mann. photographer

a dreamy poem this non-fiction

of photographs .. summer lethargy

deep woods heat, inky creeks ..

sally photos the ordinary country life

exposing the dionysian

the ethereal edges .. trees animals

kids .. ebony waters – in passage

innocent childhood androgyny

backwoods primal & sacred

cyclo. a film


republic of vietnam. now.

i should not ever write this

but this film is so violenced

and what violences


.. surreal noir

savage poetics



is it yesterday/i notice/that i nod at

a person of color/in the market/that

is normal/easier in distant places/

out here in new mexico/a far place/

.. but every where every one all time/

should be acknowledging/an other

blithe spirit

aztec café


bone china dishes

pale ash walls

chairs tables

dark beverages

sticky curtains of smoke

a 20ish tragic crowd ..

friend adrienne & i

had coffee there one time

amidst clanging memories

we two cornered a table

and between words & sips

we elicited the blue smile



janet kissed me

on my poor lips

in the crowd elevator

because it was monday

so that was me me

all day (honest)

tools. (for jessie)


before you arrive here

you will already know

about the wondrous tools

that you have to retrieve ..

tools you must love & but

tools you must transcend

to do your compelling art.


.. so then you are here &

some of what you receive

are the savvy ego &

are the sensual body

not much. (for fionna)


what else

but solace &

moisture ..

not much

would it take to


hi desert

for a few

fine weeks

into those



of wild


marc(y)ia. haiku


how there is mar●cy

so fine●ly de●mean●or●ed

as cof●fee as cream

trio. haiku


drums of thuds & splash

bass of in●tri●cate lush moans—

blue pi●an●o rain

moths. ode


in brief june lives

they, moths adore light,

as we should worship a god –

reckless & fatalistic


touch a moth

to death & it

becomes an

ecstatic burst

rodent. ode


placed carefully on the step

the cat’ gift occupies fully

one half .. unmarked not torn

not a dull city cousin gray

but a full valued chestnut


rodent of clarion

and tremor fields

~ i see you ~

~ really you ~

dead beautiful

in stillness

a woman


a woman i know

pulls the lumens

from our daytime star

from our nighttime suns


she procures bougainvillea

from her veins from arteries.

she excretes water & humidity

and exfoliates earthiness.

her hair flowers

limbs root &

bosom blossoms


the body

of her life

is a bhakti

is a devotion

to the body

of the earth

by august


the moist ones come

from mexican waters.


by august in high desert

the hot dry ones are rising


how now then the two

groups meet & engage

in the tempest dialogues



so, in the morning early

blue filtered gentle above

the air shook by bells


there was a man standing

in a high window

looking up utterly upward

and the morning 7.03

and december was a mild pause

in winter .. our neighborhood wakes

.. the neighbor women black in boots

sweaters drapes, faces were ruby by winds

.. women & their dogs muddled

in our skeleton street

spare stoic trees gray

thin fences rust brown

sharp heels to cold pavement

hard paws in brittle leaves ..

                   all voices are swallowed

                and human thoughts lost

                to the must advent of day

                door. (for nancy)


                just because

                you drive across

                towns cities

                to the place

                where a poem lives

                still it may not

                let you enter


                a poem lives

                in a house

                without doors ..

                the poet she

                must first unlock herself

                then she will find

                the door she is seeking


                once inside

                poetic chambers

                sharp worlds will

                await your embrace



                deep into

                our nation’ summer


                how our bodies

                revel in the heat

                as we lie

                in lanky grass

                under an ex

                exploding sky

                the pillow book. a film


                once you have

                the flawless

                living paper


                put the word          

                to skin


                write the poem

                to flesh



this poet is she, who is the one

                with the tender scalpels ..

                a covert coroner who questions

                yet never answers ..

                a child voyeur who looks

                but never discloses ..

                she run with a pack

                of natural savages

                all novice poets

                and pathologists ..


                she lives in a royal city, alone

                except for two mystic felines ..

                they sleep & prowl at odd hours

                they eat & urinate sporadically

                they exist on simple rituals &

                on the sparest of vespers

                yet in a moment they can be

                bloodthirsty .. so reckless

                in their pursue of poems,

                rodents & colored clouds



                one day you will

                easily slide thru

                a slick mountain pass

                california or colorado

                and your guide will smile

                pleased at her work –

                awed at the beauty

                of your death

                and then when next

                you notice, she will be

                quite calming

                while she answers

                your queries about

where you are now

or where you could be going

and for the next little while,

until you adjust,

she will continue

to be dutiful & kindness

as she should must be

because you are what she was

as she is as what

you will become


CHECK THIS OUT >>> an audio reading of this poem: