If I call
who of the angels
would hear me.
Whether one of them suddenly
would open up his heart.

The Big Shore
K. White



Like the grass called by the edge
of the scythe,
with a face, fixed into the black soil,
with lungs full of mud
and wind…
When I do not have cry.
Who of the angels
would hear me.
When I am an echo in the mountain
and my strength is a reflection
of some evening snow.
Whether one of them suddenly
would reveal his heart.
For that one who abandoned
his one
for a spring
in the desert.

wild roses

letting go of things

I cannot change

 

~European Quarterly Kukai #14

MY FIVE-FIVE-FINGERS I My five-five-fingers of my hands Zestfully lived In serenity. The three thrill fingers of my right hand: Thumb, index finger and middle finger Stoutly lived civilly and gleefully Amongst her BROTHERS: They rested gleefully upon the placid, SHARP-SABLE-POINTED-DART. II Sharp sable pointed-dart; Perched in the midst of the three thrill fingers And laid rest upon the hungry, Virgin DUSKY-SHEET, which sprawled Bear flat on the glossy desk. The glossy desk accompanying the earth The earth accompanying its depth. III The other two fingers of my right hand: Ring finger and l

The Sweetest Smells
 
Grandmother’s barn,
saddle oil and leather
the earthy steam of her plowhorse,
twice as tall as me.
 
Sawdust when my father was crafting my toys --
a stick horse, a pogo stick, a go-cart from a crate,
my first guitar, crafted from a cigar box.
Sheets dried in mountain sunshine.
 
Summer grass newly mown,
leaves freshly raked for our compost pile.
Woodsmoke from the campfire
on Snowy Range fishing trips.
 
My fathers’s Ivory Soap sweat,
on a Colorado Saturday,
tying a Grey Wolf fly on my line

Just say Thank You
 
Giving is so easy
Why isn’t receiving?
 
Giving is God saying I love you
Why isn’t receiving the same?
 
Giving is a pleasure
Why can’t we receive in pleasure?
 
Giving is a gift
Why can’t we receive a gift with grace?
 
Giving is so easy
Can we just say thank you?
 
Giving is a blessing
Can we receive in blessing?
 
 

The parks are all vomit and dancing—
a long night picked and pulled back.

Meds road. A dirty stillness. The
lingering imprint of negligence.

That dog walker? She is a waltz
in a slapstick movie, or a nightmarish whip.

She looked like Rockefeller's daughter;
that's what I told you.

You didn't like the sun
with your pale skin,
your vampire affectation
for love bites over kisses,
your dark clothes in summertime,
your trick of hiding
your face behind your long hair.
 
To make it cosy,
to make you happy,
I lit a fire
on a summer evening,
let the warm sunlight
strain against the curtain,
put on a CD
of Christmas music.
 
We lay on the carpet,
the out of season heat
melting our clothes off
like presents opening,
like Christmas crackers
quietly exploding.