Poetry

Milk From a Bucket

Once I ate cites whole every step a rending tear, tight jaws around fabric of flesh a whited glare sluicing strangers’ faces dry of all but haste the every flavor quick forgotten, ground to ash harvests of cabbage grown from small seed watered all the dry summer only to be hacked from October mud throat-slit

Read on »

Lord How We Will Miss Him Now

The old man is a charmer loving his barbershop or anyplace where he can stand a story up and make it holler every day there is a little extra he sees but nobody else notices a small thing flashes by like a bug or a day of the week he’ll dine out for hours on

Read on »

Visigoths

They are waiting just over the horizon, swords in hands, capable of anything. So we scurry to our secret rooms strip the larders bare for fear that all will soon be lost

Read on »

The Nineteen-Forties

With strong purpose one more of the heroes talks before and after, looks to build and make the broad shoulders real, and smokes against her hat and flattened flannel on a steam locomotive headed out west, towards some station of glad soldiers getting hearty hugs and more, Ernie Pyle writing about how the boys walk

Read on »

Vulture

Vulture   A noncombatant, he wasn’t exactly a coward. His parents were Quakers. He, bungling, washed out as a medic the very first week. but the Navy had him regardless, and he stayed back on the boat when the Marines hit the beaches. They knew he was bad luck and did not say goodbye.  

Read on »

Not So Old

not so old to yet be sick of yourself the everyday way you do things leave them wanting, whoever they are take in an old tom because you cannot bear to come home to an empty house, you leave his balls on so he sprays and sprays until you lock him out sit in an empty

Read on »

Black Water

Bob was seven years sober when he drifted out onto the lake, thought about turning his boat over. Seemed like a good idea and he didn’t feel like waiting for a better one. I drift now over his  same lake, once a river canyon now dammed by industry and the needs of leisure. My skiff

Read on »

Überhaus Diary: Taking Apart the Old Ford

From 1998 Taking apart the old Ford Whitey could name all the pieces maybe not right names but he knew them all had hefted each in a greasy hand sometime along the way The Ford stood on blocks off the ground the pride and joy He’d crawl under without fear but it looked shaky to me Whitey

Read on »

Überhaus Diary: Sushi Date

From May 1999. Dating in a nutshell. sushi date I watch  Masa slice the fish draw his knife quick along the gleaming belly it seems to move itself as I float forever on your voice the soft curve of your lips cradling words full of recent events devoid of meaning God you are beautiful your eyes, way across the table

Read on »

Überhaus Diary: {wash}

In the late 90s. Portland experienced a “heroin renaissance”  when a lot of cheap junk saturated the city. It took a toll. I would see junkies nodding in doorways, or sometimes doing the “junkie lean” in the middle of the sidewalk. When high they were ethereal beings. They seemed to dwell on a different plane.  Their edges

Read on »