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May 8, 2018
You still eat roots the way each footstep
put together this hillside
as if it was once a pond and slowly

dried for the afternoon–a simple life
May 4, 2018
What an honor it is to welcome Richard Powers back to Bard College this afternoon after over a decade since he last read in the Innovative Contemporary Fiction Reading series.
May 1, 2018
This is one, hoping to exist. This is one, holding out against zero: its reign of absence, its absolute winter.

Down for the count, which needs or does not need our factories of charge.
April 24, 2018
One is haunted. Haunted, one must proceed nonetheless with the courtesy of a host. One assumes the ghost is lost and needs to be helped on its way. One sees things others do not see. Or rather, one sees things that others cannot see.
April 17, 2018
There was a socket in the wall my mother told me not to touch. The wire innards of the plug spilled out of the unguarded hole. The wires looked like black spaghetti.
April 10, 2018
“And you say they’ve been here how long?”

     “We don’t know exactly. Our estimate is a month, approximately. It’s difficult to be sure, we don’t keep tabs on our employees, so it could well be longer, a month and a few days, perhaps.”
April 3, 2018
Cold hole in my right pant
through which
                        grass’s eyelash brushes my calf,
                                                                
flirty infinite    
March 27, 2018
Be the brown bear and the honeybee,
the finch and the squirrel

both too picky for this birdseed.
March 20, 2018
You can’t live forever in fear   of language. Or well,
you can.
But it’s pathetic.  
March 13, 2018
Come late spring the branches bear

creamy blooms then pulpy orange half-sweet

three- or four-stoned fruits that slip to the dirt

that all things living leave behind, dirt
February 27, 2018
You dwell at green lights
longer than expected.
Thoughts that had gone far
are slow in returning.
February 20, 2018
An Excerpt from My Red Heaven
The iridescent blue butterfly flits free of the airship and is catapulted high into the silver light by a rogue gust of wind.
February 13, 2018
From Suspension
call me   some never mind     precisely     little interest
off circulation     growing about the mouth         damp I
January 30, 2018
From that distance its rifts and fusions across a theater of inexplicable ages sown in
January 23, 2018
All the fowl, land animals, and fish fear him.

Muslims assert that he had an infidel wife named Waila,
who died in the Deluge, and was thus not aboard the Ark.
January 16, 2018
To sit with you
 among the starlings,
 yellow-eyed,  their
  paths hieroglyphic, and
 throw some crumbs our way.
January 2, 2018
I left him in the wilderness, the scrag that’s left of wilderness—plastic bag choking the gatepost, Styrofoam snow in the farmyard. The wilderness drips down my legs. Mercury, moonlight, multinutrient fertilizer. What we pour on the land in nostalgia.
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