Tag Archives: Poetry




temperature outside

neutral to the touch



lose subtlety

to the season when wind

exposes each grain of sand



away from an incident


nests in the body

now the arbiter


truth be told


if only


other windows




wish you would say something.


alone, city street



before dawn,


hot air balloons






freed from the map






post facto

post facto


inhabitable space

behind a word

like freedom


will no longer hold


now, walls

enclose the walls


i ask you to remember

the dancer’s movement


outside the confines

of a spotlight


free of any stage

or constellation


attribute, subjunctive



if i could begin again



i’d disrobe the dark


write my way through

subjective memory



i’d arrow me an opening,

and move,



notions of distance

notions of distance




where the body hurts,

pattern experience


an attempt is only to live

as someone else,

to extend—

an outline of the unknown


you sound out the remnant

the brief



passing through the room

an apostrophe interlopes

an alphabet


the top curvature of a cloud


news breaks whether or not


arbitrary reading from left to right

and down


a distinct echo


hands and mouths,

layers of gods


lightning from behind the mesa



notions of distance




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

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





the photograph shows

irregular glow of lights

on the freeway below


but telegraph your lights,

since the wires

can be read

out of context


just below, is here

where there is only

ever now



or beast, split

the double secret

is that I said

I am, to act, con



radiance is the artifact

of a former innocent state


insects, rodents,

birds have long under

stood–you have to hide

in order to live


it’s only

when reaching in

to the spiraled nest

you know how many

want to take your place—

when disrupted, nascent

hives are the epidemic

that is the new norm

such a gorgeous entrance

such a gorgeous entrance




as the rain in small

drops inter




that stretch the edges—


from within

the witnessed margins


she and the heft

without an edge—


“the word

moon doesn’t even appear

in the calculations”—


to not know what to do

in the collapsing figure,

to admit not knowing


indulge not knowing


“a gorgeous

entrance”—a decision


she places herself along with the furniture,

one with the woodwork she—


not so much as a breath and she’s

a no name story

with such big windows





Emmanuel Hocquard’s POEM (section 1.) is quoted: “the word moon . . .”

she moves north

she moves north


toward the high plain


absolved, perimeter lines

where climates

are fixed


a deferred hail storm


between self

and sky


the point of incident

still here,

beneath the pine


as interior elements


travels through northern


interior codes

never switch


and sits, ungroomed,

around the woodfire


you can felt the remnants

to house a bird


that’s an element

to forget

and learn again