Oil on canvas, 30" x 30"
Oil on birch panel, 36" x 48"
fingers a volcanic outcrop
roofed mostly in duplex lichen,
one of the tenacious earthmakingmen
helming a weathering like and unlike
and sun and rain – thick-skinned
operatives saturated with clarity
at times breezy, bright and merry,
their many modes furthering the world's
jambment – recomposing log nurses ten
alders, elfin firs to sprout in their future
shadows, nothing microminor
about a percolated spring's rambles to an icy
once-in-many-decades flood wreaking
pick-up-stick behemoth-log dams'
trout rests and paper-packed poets'
into bosomed ash-heaps
in the tree-tower boughs sifting the given
This poem was written while the author was a writing resident of the Spring Creek Project (Oregon State University) at the HJ Andrews Experimental Forest.
Each hue is defined by wave length
or frequency. How often or far apart.
The inconvenience of closeness, or
the memory of longing for
harmonic intervals of light
filtered through the human eye
and, sometimes, the mechanical eye,
yet how we discriminate these wave lengths
is not well understood (in light
of other things we know) and apart
from corresponding frequencies for
each prismatic color or
manifestation of color or
what resides harmoniously in the eye,
there is an equivalent harmony for
the musical ear, which collects length
and time, and, in turn, plays a part
in the generation of light
but cannot identify single tones of light,
like notes fingered on a piano or
a cello plucked as part
of an orchestra performed at the center of the eye.
To take red, any length
of red, and mistake it for
the afterimage of green, for
the deposit of complementary light,
is to speak of harmony to some length
and the joining of two or
more colors behind the eye,
pretending like vision is not a part
of what makes the body a part
of a machine for
forgetting. What makes the eye
not a tool for collecting, but for losing light.
To suggest that the human eye is satisfied, or
in equilibrium, is to deny the comfort of length,
the redemption of length,
the restlessness of length, or
the longing for memory of light.
grew from my mother’s fingers, sprouting
in the dirt under her nails and sending
their shoots through her veins.
Her lungs were filled with bitter earth.
Her feet became clay and crumbled under
the weight of trees. Hyacinths took root
in her liver and lilacs
perfumed the air too sweet.
Roses sprung from her womb.
We picked their berries
for our tea.
Etching, woodcut, and monotype
20" x 8"
Woodcut, monotype, and silkscreen
19" x 8.5"
There has been a small fire, burnt
tar-paper in a wastebasket, an accident
of no consequence, really—a thimbleful
of water tamed the blaze—but somewhere
buildings are burning, and I feel it is my
fault, like I have called the flames from
the cold sky with my witchcraft of longing.
I watch a calf being birthed in a pasture
surrounded by high red cliffs. I boil fresh
eggs still warm from soft underbellies
of chickens. These things are pleasant, yet
undeserved. At night, I sit with my books.
Somewhere, a fish is being angled for
off-shore. The hook in its mouth makes me
seasick, metal taste rising in my throat
like an anonymous threat. I keep changing
my address, shift from hotel to rooming
house, just to avoid the hook, the reeling in.
Oil on panel, 17" x 17"
As a child
to what was
to the chasm
the spoken words
that floated out
in the air
like morning mist
to the soft sighs
the soft syllables
to the breaths
the Oh… yes
and the Maybe… so
We press on, firing furtive glances
at the sneaky walking of the gull
determined to drop it, make use
of the foundationless to kill his prey—
the blue-black mussel that plummets
from air to pavement, maybe
three times, before it cracks
open to reveal its yellowish spoils.
Then we watch his stubborn take-off
into the sky which reaches out
and holds him firmly and which,
as though with tender hands,
tethers his wings to one place.
There, practically motionless and calm,
there defying the laws of gravity
and casually triumphant, he faces the wind.