This house of fine fruit, melon, the yeasty tendrils I’ve eatena two train riddle boarded new-minted applesin a loaf’s bagwith O syllables: off, on. No big — getting fat, in calf-cow stageI’m a rising nine, strolling in red timbers — I’m fine meansstill green.
LISTEN HERE. I have lived alone for one week of the past two hundred and thirty-nine weeks, starting April 15, 2020, which was to be the first day back to "normal" in Oregon — a long, but not too long, awaited release from holding all of the bad feelings that the COVID-19 lockdown brought up… Continue reading How’s it going?
What makes a favorite number is enigmatic. The answer to how many blades of grasswhistled between my thumbs on that hazy summer afternoon, bored to death, but still sweatingonly childhood — how many didn't?The rhythm of counting clovers by color white, white, red, blistering red not minding the stinger,on the instep of my index finger,… Continue reading 4
The best human solution to the problem of grief over a lost sense of being outdoors,combined with fear of being found outis the Juliet balcony, a slight protrusion towardsStep 1: Admit powerlessness. Forecasters say heavy rains, pushing east-southeast,could knock it out on Monday morning,and what’s worse, lift my seedlings from their pots,and plant them into… Continue reading Juliet Balcony