states of being

states of being


how is it

with you–?



of midseason



in the elements,

attach to storied lineage

as true


others, too wild

to hold their features

in memory


a long walk

in cold air


the illusion


certainty con-



if a dream is real,

it’s below,

in the arroyo

after the minus-y


in the saddle

of the parabola,

where all ends meet


where there is only ever after




winter method

winter method


sound wavers within the altitude


small grains move between here

and the horizon


locus of the principe


territorial boundaries


in the repeat story,

as canyoned as marrow bones




a conifer grows northward

toward an anonymous star—

only a percent


ultimate joys



these roots gently in leftover nebulae




too, a story of fog—



stand up, begin slow movements

toward the hearer




hoof beats absorbed in the sand—

the she-horse escapes

east, down the road


everyone waits outside




ritual objects

ritual objects


the histories appear—


collective want—


in the abstract is One, but

sitting there, spoon in hand

curvature of the known universe



private historical moment




wondered of dawn, as the edge of


but where begin?


small creatures in nested holes

fortify entrances




tables rise through the dark

toward an all-encompassing

in-between event


ritual objects such as the Placemat,






Bones observed in the San Pedro Wilderness, near Cuba, NM–and digitally celebrated (embellished).




at odds on the landscape,

between here and the wellpump


what have you

may be enough





unwrap the remainder—

how many years now?


of the gift into






the point in question was not—

outside of doors,

the home state



not the Place,


the feeling





at the first snow fall,

lines on her hands



it’s not the matter.

who curates the fixity?


directed from within



uncertain the fate


of these trees

A new method

Trying a new art-making method=opening a path to endless possibilities. Isn’t that the real work at hand? Not the individual product, but the work itself.

The “opening-to-possibilities” part, an experience I may be addicted to.

Today you see my first attempt at carving and printing a lino block.

Well, to come clean: about 18 years ago, a group of friends got together for brunch at an artist-friend’s house; she taught us to carve and print a lino block. I carved one small block (of a rose–perhaps carving something so complicated prevented me from trying again till now?).

For whatever reason, only a few months ago I assembled all of the tools and materials needed to carve and print a lino block, and only this weekend printed my first “real”prints. Like many people, I suppose I’m better at generating ideas of what I want to do than actually doing it!

For this project, I used an unmounted lino block, and Speedball carving tool (the handy kind with the blades in the handle). I used Speedball water-soluble inks, mulberry paper, and Speedball brayer and baren. I also used a piece of glass from the hardware store (for inking). I plan on buying better carving tools for the unmounted lino (for sharper blades).

As a reference, I used several large Burr Oak leaves from a tree in our yard, and its one and only gargantuan acorn (the size of a golf ball!). I was fascinated by the thing and determined to represent it as best I could.

I first drew it on paper, then traced my drawing and transferred it to the lino block by placing it face down and then retracing the lines, on the back. Ah, graphite is such a wonderful thing–fascinating that it is the same stuff as a diamond, just on the opposite end of the hardness spectrum!

In the future I will also make sure to leave more lines in the back ground, since I love the effect in other linotypes I’ve seen. Lots of ideas now that this first print is free in the world; blocks of different sizes can be used for different purposes. Next, I’ll use a small (2.75″X5″) block to make a print for handmade cards–not ready to try another 5″X7” yet.

Nuance and unconscious skill comes over time; if you are intrigued by a particular type or method of artmaking, jump in and try it. We live at a time when we can watch a video on how to do just about anything–and if time (and funds) allow, take a class to commune with other newbies!

Pinterest offers a somewhat mindless way to do some pre-work, reflecting on artworks whose style you admire. See my growing “collection” on my Linocut board.

The beauty of attempting to make art is, hey, it’s just paper and ink, you can do no harm. But you may regret never trying!

For a fun guide on lino, rubber, foam, and stamp printing try: Block Print by Andrea Lauren. It’s amazing the art you can create with even a few white rubber erasers as your printing blocks.


saint -somebody-


saint -somebody-


in a sweat

time contracts but doesn’t change

I have the uncertain role

of presiding

over miniscule

pebbles in the rain

the rain drops to preside

“they have such beautiful. . . “







at the edges

she wore the crown

and then, in prison,

thought it was good

to overthrow the trust

to the musical note


in the early morning the high

letter –c—is the high point

but her necklace

at the




cast shadows

illusion of a fire

on central


cut into

her daughter—

to unlearn boundaries


to cry out

at the edge of dying




she was burned

she was hanged

she was drowned

she sank


she was scratched

she was robbed

she was raped

she was dismembered

she was shot

she was only waiting to see whether she was

damaged or

left for dead

or instruction



having a hand









Thoughts on the Dynamic Image in Poetry

Thoughts on the Dynamic Image in Poetry

I think it is necessary to learn about poetry in high school. As a developing poet, it is an essential period of safe exploration.
But we must unlearn what we have learned in school, in order to fully participate in the dynamism of living poetry.

It’s true that as members of the human race, we need poems that can be memorized and shared, that connect directly with our own memories and emotions. Canonized poems are the ones we tend to read in school because they are repeated, repeatable; some were subversive at some point but now they are subject to analysis by teachers and students, and thus they become conventional and further from their origins with each reading.

I can think of many “conventional” poems that sing in my heart over many years. Poems I enjoyed for their cleverness, their mastery of form and device. Poems that contain a continuous narrative. Poems that speak to me. Sylvia Plath’s “Black Rook in Rainy Weather”, William Butler Yeats’ “Second Coming”. Theodore Roethke’s “The Waking”. John Donne’s “Daybreak”. These are only a few.

To fully understand the power and purpose of poetry, the poet must evolve over time. The alternative is to stay suspended as if in a clear gel, to relive the same patterns over again. To replay a greatest hits album. To live in a museum of sorts.

I’m no longer infatuated with derangement of the senses—a seemingly dynamic method of poetry–though I love Jack Kerouac, Arthur Rimbaud, my old party friends. Although there is dynamism when tapping into the subconscious, in this method and lifestyle, the experience is too random. If fueled by drugs, is tied up in the ego and is, ultimately, damaging. (Sure love Jack’s “Bowery Blues” . . .).

Some poems have a thesis, a persuasive point they are trying to make. I feel a little sad reading a poem that has the soul of a persuasive essay. I’d much rather read a poetic essay than an essay masquerading as a poem.

Ancient poetry is narrative, formal, memorizable. The most innovative, energetic poetry today is not.

Now, the image is everything. With an image, a poet creates a world. Creates the world.

The dynamic image does not come from a set of stock cultural photos one pulls down from a shelf.

The experience of accessing the image is a channeling—a tunneling—to make room, and then walls slowly peel away from the room leaving only the indifferent universe. And there lives and breathes the Image.

The dynamic image is not recycled or manipulated. The dynamic image is born.



Future topics: entropy in poetry; insight






to start, to walk



at the cusp


where is she founded?





flesh around the bones

belongs to her



better her than the wind




this segment of the woods—

does not disperse

with the breath


sensitive to thought

noise and the wide open aperture

at noon



(an imperceptible hinge–starts


the continuous now








small beings


from an echo





we read them in their bones







collects around an edge—





all, all the sky

the brush

the ribs



all, woven-in






one step


one step



in the sand









there are no masters

no tether

no never

no lonely stone





when at the end,



keep walking









not yet the story

not yet the story


it was matter

mixed with




of light


it was she seeing,


against afternoon light





impossible reflection itself—

a glance of water surface


dark shadows and sky


—to enter


as crossing a foreign wall




always an outside




it is said messages

come from within the nest—


difficult to track—


footprints continue to evolve

at each windburst




lyric in the underbrush


sky sky





breath breath






and the song





drawn lines in the palm


illusion of gratitude or

an emptiness to wander


the old road for the sake—

is not yet the story