Thursday, March 25, 2010

Terry Fox Courage Highway

His message spreads since the day
he takes to his feet.
He takes one day at a time,
one game at a time.
The contest holds no places -
only hope -
     a panorama of hope
that is the story of lives changed.
He runs by foundations of old neighborhoods.
He will cross a finish however many relays
it takes to finish his purpose of continent.
Whoever is in his marathon
will collect together their kilometres.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010


The beggar cries for the moon
     to be a silver dollar.
The rich man empties his pockets,
beats his fists at the prophet's door,
and cries in his sins for a long while.
     The dreamer,
unbroken in the meditation of his days,
brings his bow and violin.
He consults the ground,
     the animals,
     and the fog
that he sees for perhaps the first time.
He entertains the beggar and the rich man,
and charges no quarter for it.
Animals come out of the fog
and reveal themselves
for the first time.
I cannot say what will happen after that.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010


I catch up to your face in Nashville.
I sit on the off-ramp for hours.
     My shoes fit the bill,
yet I fear to speak the globe's guffaw.
I put Willie Nelson at the helm
and coast the rest of the way
to your coronation.
You will run a dark and dusty outfit.
I will be one of your subjects,
secluded in the starlight express.
Address your play list to the fallen angels
of this regime's catastrophe.
Fill their boots with dust
that they might know irritation.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Passing afternoons

Strikes reach my ear in a succession of falling castle walls
     and fell my resistance to effort.
Walls fall all the way to my passing afternoon.
My eyes turn from a camera to behold ramparts
overflowing with overflowing eyes.

Effortlessly, I watch a land being observed,
a land responding to limbs falling
into maps on passing afternoons.
     Gradually, I respond to my limbs
walking out of the map into the resistance of my heart.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010


Men press darkly on evening snow.
Newspapers rustle on the tundra.
Snowplows trundle through icy streets.
     I am caught off the curb
in their candle glare.
A man in a wagon addresses me
from the pavement. He is kind.
     He tells me I am part wolf.
He offers protection to me.
His wagon is open.
Heavy flakes fall in front of me.
Banks of lights turn on and off.
The lights dance.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Few of us are

entirely present in one place.
Brother, counsel me not with circumlocution
as I apply every ounce of meaning to your advice.
I take the course of action you recommend.
I take the liability to say something funny.
The beautiful dally, composing their conversation
I soak in climates incidental to my search for you,
my Lord.
I see the scarecrow dance his worries away
in a jiffy.
I see you descend in a cloud to greet me,
my love,
as I climb the steps of the church
with the prospect of water
on one side of the highway.

Train Smoke

I follow the train smoke of day's approach
through every scrape the brambles have bled me.
The hearts of the champions smash inside
their chests. Hides have been punctured
many times by the lawless mountain thorns.

The giants grapple with the mountain thorns
as they walk from the mountains.
They pull illusions from the clouds.
I take passage on rivers carved
from their toil.
It is a great vision to see
the wolf or the eagle that escapes the pull
of the giants. I toil in their shadow.
My sight is temporarily blinded by sweat.
Only then is my vision beclouded by realism.