rivers of sand

little penn

flowers mister

moving the dead air like an uninterrupted chorus of heavy wake
vehicles roll their black soles over bleached asphalt grit
all day and all night and find pauses for breath
dictated only by amber to red
---
mister sits upon one overturned bucket
an interruption in the pattern of others
right-sided and filled with cut flowers bright
and fresh beneath their plastic wrap
and unknowing of the exhaust unseen from
ancient petroleum plants and bits of synthetic rubber
---
he sits between the scissor blades of traffic
waiting patiently for those breaths
to deal in pedals and pollen
pure and moist
---
he inhales tobacco smoke
as if to match the unseen carbon grime
up in his clothing fibers with
his darkened lungs
---
his math is tight
hard hands wring
posture wilts slightly
with each passing green and no empty buckets
---
the flower death began in the land of windmills and levees
but still for another day live here amidst the choked air
and the impermeable ground and the vehicles who
feign the good life with chromed plastic
---
mister is a ruse of make-believe
a spirit sent to shed anonymous light upon that
which is the fading paradox

Kraynick's

On Tue, May 4, 2010 at 4:11 PM, Bartley, Clarence wrote:

I talked to him yesterday, to make sure he got your stuff.
He said he wanted to look at it later in the day.

I know he was working from home, and I think had to take his wife to the Dr.
We are definitely looking for help, so I think we will be calling you hopefully soon.
I'm slammed with work.

Maybe we can go to dinner Friday and watch the game.

springtime in friendship

"Leave it as it is. You can not improve on it. The ages have been at work on it, and man can only mar it."

-President Theodore Roosevelt, Grand Canyon, Arizona, May 6, 1903

tilt test oakland

gentle hour

these times i awake before you
before you have the chance to
draw back the curtains
heavy hung
to rally more sleep
i step out from my dreams to anticipate you

warmth unmatched by a late spring sun
keeps you tucked
to the neck under the down
and embalmed like a princess
eternally awaiting her king
and likely dreaming
for such

i push back thoughts fighting to
gain the day
to savor waking

slowly and without sound you softly blink
in the late morning
like a newborn pleasured by her arrival

i watch
envying your mother
for having witnessed your eyes'
first moments
but i will take the here
and try to cradle you just so

the twentyten snowfall (night durning)

newtown square

cook forest