[Notes on Wasted Land]

Then spoke the thunder that you feared 
the sound rolled over old paved stone to the surface 
today I multiply the vibration and let you have silence. 

My heart tears (makes holes in the sphere) 
ribbons from bare pear branches 
war is here 
what color is war 
poison beauty breath 
not found, not remembered 
publicly ditch angel, personal slant. 
Thinking of the key confirms a prison. 
Here, papered poem, paper delusions 
water adjusts the bank 
the bridge is broken 
the bridge has not been built yet. 
                        Decide who the hero is to know who will survive. 

Rasputin

Who's who in the night 
scared men in the front light 
trust their gut like grandma's kisses. 
We will return in a ship on fire 
waiving every flag at once into the harbor. 

Winter eyes, cold and early dark 
droplets made stained glass air 
to twist and turn in rooms 
too cold then too hot. 
She is seen in error or barely at all. 
Bring the blood moon, the blue moon, the farmer’s moon 
we march on water’s time, test each theory of death 
and prove everyone else is wrong.

[A Style of Writing] 

After boys become some kind of man 
we won't be there again, even 
learning to drink less and wake early 
when their wives and kids need them. 

The door is broken, the home is not 
as we begin to compare our splinters 
before our squinting eyes. 

Sun is the moon, my eyes are broken, my tears are broken. 

Warships anchor in unison like geese’s triangular edge. 

I was somewhere else the other day writing in the dark 
back against the wall by the door, a bedroom in the Mission 
one window with a view of the neighbors' blinds.