Two musicians

... sisters both still in their teens.

Mount Eerie

Generation X

Sometimes
dreams with soundtracks
by Mazzy Star.

The Place for No Story

An audio recording of the Robinson Jeffers poem, read by the author

I'm New Here

Genius

Transmigration Solo

I had forgotten how much I love Joseph Ceravolo's poems. Buy  or borrow The Green Lake Is Awake!

The Bones Of Night

Images are not numbers. Freud

tried translating them. They are

notes towards themselves.

A walled city represents its own

interests. I want to go in

but I don't trust -- its symbol

is the horse, no, an upended

flask of water. I've been there

once creaking like an old door.

Soundly to venture forward

into desire. This film

I think I've seen, but it changes

memory. I dream an entire

film. A recurring dream. Always,

I am some actor, falling into trees.

My mind churns up such thoughts

to bother me on weekends.

Distract me towards the sea, or

to you. My mind on the whole

has betrayed me. Love is strong.

Sunny villas, much running water.

The grasses hush together

in greenness. This stolen city means

so little. I will write it flawed and beautiful.

The Herd

There are few things harder to parse than the minor acts of injustice and betrayal perpetrated by good people. Tonight, riding my bike home, I meditated on this and it finally dawned on me: these acts do not make sense because they are thoughtless. Injustice, for good people, is a kind of wave or gestalt that overtakes them when they are weak. The only answer to such wrongdoing is to feel rage - raw rage- at the fear, not at the person and to refuse to, yourself, be afraid. To respond any other way is bound to hurt someone else, if not today, then soon.

Last week I rode
Last week I rode my bicycle past
a construction site

Where a crane was high above
a sculpture
to cut a tree

And the worker for the city
called out
called out in a stutter