Posts Tagged ‘conventions’


I can steer my mind from the pain in my heels
with the thought of osteoblasts,
Doozer cells who remodel
my bone from calcaneus through tibia
thanks to the lash of gravity
against the substrate of concrete.

We are all lined up like vertebrae
in a queue from door through courtyard,
broken at the stairs to resume where I stand,
minutes into the second hour,
wishing I had another drink or hadn’t had the first.

But I’ll imagine I’m stronger thanks to the wait,
as -blasts and -cytes shore up my bone
the way engineers brace a bridge
before it crumbles, or the way my fingers while in line
lift Goo in stages from the ground to the pipe,
before I get too old
to stand in the line at the foot of the stairs.


Liner note

Read Full Post »

For MaxFunCon

The road to my favorite place
begins this way from any direction,
welcoming lanes, warning signs, and glimpses
above of where you’ll be after switching back.

No matter the hours and miles behind me, I’m never
on my way until I feel the engine strain against the incline,
never there until the lanes themselves strain against
the barriers of cliff and precipice – then crest, level,

lay me down the last few miles to my destination.
Here, the Southeast’s temperate forest swapped
for scrub, a destination twice as high, the wink
of upcoming asphalt shirks away, outdone

by the glimpse below of cloud thrown out like a plowed
white field, rows awaiting tending by some species
that might hover there, above the unguarded drop.
Even when the sand and succulents

yield to more familiar bark and leaf,
I’m still elsewhere, undone by hours and miles,
by the welcoming lines of faces waiting,
voices stirring like the breeze from shore.

Liner note

Read Full Post »

This sense, the opening gate,
a wrought iron groan between manubrium
and xiphoid as I step beneath
the arbor to the path is not exactly loneliness,
though it may be what’s left
once a sieve sifts the sad out from the lonesome.

But still, alone and watching the inchworm earnestly climb its thread
in the space above the trail, freeze when I shift its tether
to rest on the knot of an oak, drop
to leaf litter below, I feel
what I feel walking alone on a beach at sunrise, collecting
shells and thinking of my mother, thinking of dreaming of
walking with her, the light still new and sand dollars washed
in from a storm.
Or what I feel, alone in the last descent
between Asheville and Atlanta, ears still rebounding
from the altitude, heart left behind
on the cobblestones of Wall Street, between
Flat Iron and Laughing Seed.
Or, tucked between nostalgia and regret, the last,
solitary look back at the convention hall,
fantastic microcosm of unmade connections, its ratios always
noticed and never mined, a shared language of shared passions
losing its lexicon as all its speakers scatter,
a world undone until another year.

A sensation to nourish like an egg, this ache,
this afterimage from a flash of joy,
which blinks like the ten o’clock sunlight on the creek,
bobs like the brief flare of two periwinkle blossoms
among the ferns, snares like the vine finding spare
footing in the bark.


Liner note

Read Full Post »

%d bloggers like this: