"Intensity," by flickr user Nicholas_T / licensed by Creative Commons

Before Progress Messed Things Up

(Strawberry Hill, Woodbridge, N.J.) Wasn’t one damn berry on that hill in any season, shape, shade, or size. And that sluggish-greenish thing they called a stream? Had nothing but a concrete bridge prettied up with some punk’s art and years…

Photo courtesy Creative Commons / by Flickr user Vivienne Gucwa

Three Poems

  On Returning to Baker, California The World’s Largest Thermometer is dark now, most of the ten-degree bulbs shot out for target practice and the Starbucks’ windows boarded up and splintering to dust in the gritted-desert wind are cordoned off…

A SoCal Summer

A SoCal Summer

The best time to surf is always now. There is never time unless it is stolen, or constructed–saved. The calendar carves it up and serves it to the coyotes scavenging around the fringes for scraps of moments that can never…

“The Fifteen Beds of Our Honeymoon” & “I Want to Sleep in the Belly of a Dog in Idaho”

“The Fifteen Beds of Our Honeymoon” & “I Want to Sleep in the Belly of a Dog in Idaho”

The Fifteen Beds of Our Honeymoon Our bellies were full of beef at bedtime in Amarillo.    I don’t remember John Wayne’s bed at the Apache being particularly cozy, although I did sleep through the alarm, saying “I’ve seen enough…

Processing

Processing

* This piece is set at Deep Springs, a 2-year, experimental college that I attended in the early aughts. The school is unique. It’s tiny (usually 26 student total), all male (although it’s about to go co-ed), and incredibly isolated….

Looking Out at the Aegean

Once in a sleep tinged with sun, tinged with night-dark wine on a white porch, Dry heat cracked under foot, under hats, in my lungs like an old curse. Five thousand miles in a ship with a silvery skin and…

Eagle Nest Butte

or, Thoughts on Crazy Horse, to Dead Chickens. “My lands are where my dead lie buried.” —Crazy Horse