Chipping at the ice

It is like I am chipping softly at the ice, a little bit at a time, trying to get to 
the clear water underneath, but the ice is thick and I can only chip a little bit 
at a time and every little bit that I chip fills up with water and when, the next 
morning, I come back to try to make more progress, all the cracks and crevices 
I have chipped, all the progress I have made, all those fissures have filled up with 
water in the night and refrozen, becoming once again just more ice. In some 
cases it seems the seams have somehow become even stronger, harder, more
intransigent and resistant to my efforts to break through to the water beneath.

I know that there are fish down there. I have seen flashes of them on occasions
when I have managed to make the ice thin enough to see to where the sun penetrates
into the depths and I know that if I could get through then I might capture one
of those fish and make a meal or a trophy or at least I might have a solid, silver
moving thing for a moment in my hands, painfully cold but brilliant and gleaming.


NaPoWriMo, 2016, Day 9 (on day….ummm, whatever…give me a break, I’m still writing. I’m still giving myself, poetically…), Something to do

Something to do

it has something to do with these three little pieces
and an old coffee can full of more

something to do with 
many pieces that are lost

that are lost but almost remembered and
then forgotten again

many things full of many pieces 
that are almost found 

and then lost again
and then forgotten yet again

how many things have been lost and then forgotten 
and never remembered

or barely remembered
or only just remembered in a fevered state

in the night
in a sheet-soaking sweat

things that seemed
terribly important at the time

but then were hidden from the mind under the corner of a rug
in the corner of a rug shop

a dusty place to lose your self

...keepin' the Po in NaPoWriMo...

NaPoWriMo, 2016, Day 8 (on Day 10–I’m falling behind…), Morbidity in a New Forest

(a continuation/re-thinking/new chapter of this piece, from a little while ago)

Morbidity in a New Forest

What are these things that we go to and get away from,
these masses of matter that we shun, shy away from
and then are drawn inevitably back towards—
or if not inevitably then more often than not
more strongly towards than away from so that
we are always having this going—
this coming and going, this to-ing and fro-ing—
these lines and circles in the forest where
even chaos is a kind of color, a kinder order
than we are used to, than we deserve,—
if we can be said to deserve anything at all—
a kind of overlay on these things that
defy this definition, all these definitions 
since nature abhors lines and circles as much 
as vacuums and yet of what is this universe 
mostly made except the stuff of which it

...keepin' the Po in NaPoWriMo...

NaPoWriMo, 2016, Day 7–Drank in


Drank in

We wanted to have our say 
even if saying so didn’t mean much
and much of what we said was mean
and lost in the wind and the howl of 
the planet’s grinding turns.

We were angry with the world. 

We did not want to dance to 
the tune of its existence
so we drank to our own 
disinterest instead,
to the tune of our
own end of times.

We drank in the 
dying of the light.


This place is not our home.
This place is a when, 
not a where.

...keepin' the Po in NaPoWriMo...

NaPoWriMo, 2016, Day 6–When we came out

When we came out

When we came out from the city
there was nothing left of the town.

When we came out of the town
there was nothing left of the farm.

When we came out of the farm
there was nothing left of the forest


when we came out of the forest
there was 

nothing left.

NaPoWriMo, 2016, Day 5–soft violence

soft violence

the soft violence of the sword
that severs flesh from flesh

that steals stone from soil
or holes in awnings from

falling bullets, silent as they
settle to earth, as they come

to rest through this, the soft 
skull of the city in the dark