Published in Cathexis Northwest Press (again...the second time CNP has published me). Out in the March, 2026 issue.

From Mud Emerging 

rain comes early this fall
or so habit alleges
 
a November skyful
of sun has drawn
a white flowering
from the black dirt
in the nearby hills
 
there you walk to celebrate
the season’s edges
where mycelia have woken
to see you
 
their roots connect
the broken will
in the underground –
here there is no place
that does not make you
 
on these humdrum trails
you walk to root out ignorance
and take steps to stop
the myriad screens
that first cause
a fake you
 
here fungi, not the lotus,
remind you
 
*
off the trail
on a small track
to the steep cliff
where the raw light falls
to the darkness
at the bottom
of Baldwin Creek draw
           
picnics once here
or prayers
leave breadcrumbs the size
of chasms
 
the lie in your grasp
has trampled the grass
on this edge
of your wilder nature –
your hand grips
the local rock
 
the coastal mudstone
crumbles as the path
comes to a crag
 
*
these small trails
are mysteries
and dead ends
leading to a leap
in the freefall
of dharmakaya –
 
the main trails:
thoughts begin
small trails:
thoughts end
 
you pay attention to beginnings
more than cessation
 
it is embarrassment,
isn’t it? the very peril
of what you think
 
in the end
the dark winks
to take contrivance
to the edge
and push it off

 To be published in the Fall/Winter 2025 issue of Yanaguana magazine. 

A Chant of Choice

The brotherhood wakes to a bell tuned to middle C.
 
The habits are strong this morning –
those voices carried so long natter on
and slam familiar doors and deny the greater
strength of these trees and seasons
and the singing of the hours. Cosmogenesis and entropy
both clear their throats. The sound
of the universe self-creating does not kid around. 
 
So I raise a white flag
to the very crowns of the trees
that circle my home.
 
Perhaps in last night’s dream
I learned to surrender to habits,
and I received a transmission that helps:
the voices between my ears –
no longer close anything.  Every sound is a door.
What once was less is now more.
 
But let’s be honest, I got kicked out of the Brotherhood
and I say good morning to coffee and self-cherishing,
my addictions of choice.
 
I do not doubt
the power of capitulation
the value of setting matters on the soapstone counter,
marmalade and mortality aligned for one more time,
one last time as though there were time left.
 
It’s another morning of monkeys
left on my back, chipper in the cortex --
the chatter of the universe fixing its mistakes
off key and amused by the filters awarded us.
 
What I want to tell you is that loving these habits
opens doors.  Look at the world
that’s left through today’s threshold.
It is a green song stretching
glittering particles of union
across an inland sea.
A green song that yearns for
the very skin of black holes.
And it is also a shrug
on tired shelf-life shoulders.
 
Do a little stretching every morning.
Practice your scales.
Watch for falling branches.
 
This is the lesson learned every morning:
infinite darkness and eternal light
grow tall from one root,
flow from the same spring,
and both sing a song of no limits.
 
And, oh, the root is not theory.
My bones are a pitch pipe.
My throat, though passing,
whistles with what might have been possible.
Today begins.

 To be published in the November, 2025 issue of The 34th Parallel .

Our Peculiar Garden

You walk in the door
with half a pail
of yellow gall.
 
You’ve tended all
the mysterious places,
on our lands.
You grew a tree
where my face
once filled with parables.
I remember the day
your green hands braided
the rich earth and made
a scourge to purify
our sloppy lives.
 
So now I stop and suffer,
to consider both
the lilies of the field
and that darn unlucky
fig tree.
 
You walk in
with a familiar
tension.  But we
need not toil, nor will we spin,
apparently.
Every fear formed by your steps
is a path. A lesson
of how blood will loosen.
A lesson of opening eyes.
 
These seeds of fate
fall from a lazy grip
to redeem the fallow fields
on their own. It works
if you work it. And also if you don’t.
I agree with you, though.
Our garden’s fruit waits.
“Time to get your hands dirty,” you say.
 
Seize these hands then, too.
They want to be green
before it’s too late.

 To be published in the Fall 2025 edition of the journal The Bridge.

I Broke a Leg Where Pilgrim Feet Once Trod

Scene: the mountains in fall. Anthony sits cross-legged at a campfire. He’s ready for action.

Anthony: I feel no feeling. It’s from this habitual numbness I punch down. The culture made of memory and edited history both numbs me and stirs up my just Cause.  Then it ambulates away from the Effects. Scot free and cheating at taxes, this is what will make me walk like a rich man, right? Walking on borrowed time with no shame.  So I reach out from screen and page and ask you to join me in a landscape of silent valleys. Let’s shatter these earthen jars full of dissembling parchment, let’s let go of the fragments. With the icy fists of poetic license let’s punch a thesaurus, a genealogy, a hierophant’s foot. I complain to the manager that no starting point was scripted, no basecamp imagined for this set piece. The I/thou dialogue in this box of words gets tangled up, pushed into dry paragraphs, and trips over its own workshopped feet. This is the last pilgrimage of autumn, of papyrus and symbols unknown, and it is not the dance you wanted. Twist the bones before the plot, then backspace. The low angles of light allow erasures and mistakes. The fog comes on club feet, and we stumble, parched, toward an ancient reliquary, the Rule gone wild.

(Director’s cut): Wipe dissolve to a wilderness site. Step by step to the foot of the mountain where he set up camp, sidetracked and firewalled by the washes and arroyos, the dried aspens, high desert juniper, all ready for the deluge to come.  Future destinations spread like cottonwood seeds climbing in air. Where? The head holds the map. The head conspires to smuggle messages to the feet.  The feet are ready for any hubbub, though they prefer he not know there is no feeling.  Neuropathic insolence. The heavy demand of awareness weighs on his extremities and abbreviates timespans. Ah, but the gig is, in fact, up.  The film noir’s credits rolled at the beginning. Now he knows that art just obfuscates, assumes what is unwarranted success. It’s all entertainment to disguise death and old age.  I (footnote: this is the director’s voice) don’t think, though, his place in a cave is cinematic enough. Let’s put him on a path open to the elements.

Anthony: Here at the foot of a majestic cedar I stop to collect the debt accruing in your hands too. I pull the map from your cerebral cortex.  The games will start now, the character development and conflict. You think this is easy? Do you prefer nursery rhymes?  I pull you through the screen into my body, and with this alchemy we can transform the numbness into song. Ok, maybe not song, but spoken language. Ok, maybe not language, but a website.

Review from Cahiers du Cinéma: Appendages convey letters, single file sentences.  Lines enjambed to wither the smidgen of your patience left.  The point (both sharp and dulled) is to find a trail to new breath, new lungs, interconnected neurons with name tags for the icebreaker … oh yes, the body reimagining itself with precious mistakes.  The fine print at the bottom of it. No feeling, where there once was feeling.  Words where there was once a canyon of silence. 

Anthony: Oh sweet lord, dry my feet with your hair. These conundrums are toes.  This little piggy went to market.  The desert fathers are bereft of new ideas. Just find me one true trail to get all the way home, is that too much to ask? What, was that my job?  I hear the French circumlocution here in the Eastern Sierras.  It says, “Tony, heads up!” I play the old soundtrack, a disintegrated loop. Mistakes prove that impermanence is the only way forward.

The Review (cont.): The final frame also has limits and unforeseen expectations. We walk, hobbled and humbled, out of the theater, with this wild hunger, with this borrowed body, one painful step at a time. It surprises no one that the rain has begun.

Anthony: Pilgrim, there is no camino. The absence of maps cuts right to the bone. The loss of the old world is a lamp to my feet.

Published in the Fall 2025 edition of Accidental Magazine.  A cheery poem about dementia, loss, and the beauty of companionship.

Sundowning

When the day turns 
and bends away from us
I call you by name
though you do not hear me.

You close your doors; 
light is your brief foe.
Or so you tell me
as you ambush even yourself.

You draw shades
with lead. You swallow the poison
just to make sense.

“I arm myself against you
by drowning,” you offer.  
You salt our memory with this one-way truth.

How I yearn to navigate the book of your life!
I ask you to fetch facts
off the erased pages of your journal
and instead you mark canvas lifeboats 
on a wide and silent sea.
Entries float on each other.
Palimpsest distractions play on neurons,
vellum, and vanity. In place of speech
your hands catch fish. 
You mute confusion with aphasia and mudras.
You remember that in the nunnery
the sign of honey is to set your finger on your tongue.

“Look, dear one, my blood dries on a finger like ink.
Turn around, let me write the password
on your back, then rub away my mistakes,
and tell you storm lies,” I try to sound like rain.
You chuckle when I slap
the bee I pretend is there.
There is sweetness in this familiarity, 
though your laughter isn’t yours.
It comes from another day.

*
This page loses all the words
you scratched in me.

I make a topic sentence to hold
your cold synapses. Then a sonnet of denials.
All to ease the swelling.

I bend this sentence to fit in your hands
just as eventide folds my fear 
into rabbit’s ears of rain.
I beg you to recall
when we ducked for shelter
under eaves whose music  
was the rattle of small birds 
then we slow-danced
in redemptive syncopation.
Your blind contentment was relentless.
How I loved being your mute safe harbor.

But now time has swapped our senses 
and dried the details of your touch,
the scent of your closeness,
the music of your breath,
the wild beauty of your conclusions.
Now your body arms itself
with high tide and low expectation.

This sentence refuses to surface
from the gathering murk, the stumbles.
Its three words are cartoon fingers.
I promised honey from rock 
but I failed you.
As if to prove I am a dupe, I confirm
my wild addiction to the folly 
of our hasty bodies, and how now
dusk’s torch song
forms a foreign tongue in our ears. 
I see tonight that the kaleidoscope 
of your eyes will never
friend my skin again. 
I don’t know our end,
but three words sink, waiting.

*
At dinner I tie a bib on these words.
The words that would fill the air 
with the world 
should you hear them.

But it’s too late, my comrade.
We’ve already picked the pocket of time.
The silver pole holding up the universe
falls with the sun.
In this hour before skunks
the shimmer and glare
of cause and effect decline.
The machine freezes and steals our life.

Evensong sharpens its edge
to cut the pattern of our dwindling. 

*
                 Error, error, fatal error.
We’ve forgotten this operating system
came from stars
even if it will not last another night.

Supper’s ready and we grimace 
and bare teeth. We eat eternity.
We fooled the facial recognition test --
the surrender to hypervigilance
misses what’s true.

It stings, this bitter grace.
Your face cuts into me
with a voice that calls my name.
The luminous emptiness
reveals it wasn’t you 
who had turned from light, but I.
It was I who did not hear your call.
It was your voice naming me.

Now a silence curates our 
long loneliness.
A loneliness that holds us together
more tightly than ever.

 Published in September, 2025 in Liebestraum Review

A Reckoning

Old Sisyphus sets the table slowly. Guests are a big deal now.
The Librarian is coming for supper.
She’ll bring the history of ideas.
 
It is late in the year and the long reach of the afternoon
so sunlight streams in acute angles through this room --
slow autumn light shines on dust motes rising like tired little angels.
 
Old S is tired too. The only stones he pushes now are in his kidney.
He stays inside for days and follows the shifting light
to see it change the room in endless afternoons; to see time fall.
 
Tonight, though, he’ll meet her to settle effects and their causes.
He will admit to her he can’t keep up at all.
Speed no longer feeds him and these hills are too steep.
 
At the head of this trestle table he’ll place human error.
That’ll be his chair where they’ll negotiate the death they share
and then map how the mortal mind always misses the point.
 
She’ll come at sunset, her arms loaded with scrolls –
long lists of appeals, old stipulations,
a faulty memory, and lives of purpose scribed on parchments.
 
He knows what she’ll ask of him when she comes.
She’ll ask him to free them all from his needy heart’s ache. 
 
*
There in the corner of the dining room wait
papers he’ll show her. The bloodwork from the lab,
under a cucurbit of dried mushrooms and madrone twigs.
 
And the overdue book on Plotinus he promised
to return to her. She’ll forgive him.
She always does. It is her act. A dance of withered figs.
 
Now he hears her hooves scratch at the door.
His best and last offer will be to open it. He takes a breath
to prepare himself for the curse of silence they’ll explore.
 
His wobble shames him. His unbalance bores her. 
Oh his wrinkled cherished hand smooths his hair
then opens the polished door to see her there.
 
*
 
He could ask her to dance,
but he won’t.
 
He could offer drinks from the river of consolation,
but he won’t.
 
So they will hold each other
until they don’t.
 
There is work to do. Even ancient trees live to produce fruit.
They exhaust the light on this longest of nights.
 
Every idea waits for them, patient as blood.
Then she wraps a spell around the philosopher’s stone.
 
She points to where he sits and says, “if this makes you feel special,
dismiss it. Not even your mistakes are real.”
 
He thinks she sounds like his mother, the punishment and calcination.
His origin is in her and what’s left of fire passes from one life
 
to another.  At last they scratch at their saddle of human aspiration
and lie to each other like husband and wife.
 
But it is an accounting, not love, she came for. The books are closed.
The parchments rolled out nothing but dust and mold.
 
This poem, this skin of utterance, is an impermanent fool,
and all fools die, turn to stone, and roll down
 
the mountain. On the peak’s lee side epithets huddle
to pay and purify his delinquent fees. S agrees to these cold terms.
 
So done and signed, she rings the bells.  Work is over.
Now she is his dream to wake from,
 
with a red coal on his tongue.
The new ash will make an earth in his sleep.
And the season of sleep is finally here.

 A chapbook of poems, Inept Love, will be published in 2026 by Finishing Line Press