Errant Poet

In the thick of it with the Cottonwood Club at the Danforth gallery weaving an apocalyptic tale about the Waif and Admiral Apothecary. Thanks to John Zumpano for the shot and to Dalton C. Brink the mad curator.

Edward dear, time to wake up, the gentle nurse said nudging the old man in his wheelchair parked in a sunny spot on the lawn. He smiled at her as he lifted his head. Sweetheart, you can call me Tex.

Death rides a ragged bull on the dark nights of new moon. Smokes crystal from a carburetor. Dry laughter carries through the air like a rusted weather vane turning in a storm. In the morning people complain of poor sleep.

Cemetery. Patagonia, Arizona.

Time passes and plays its coy illusion, a lilting tune like a creaking gate. At times it's preferable to hike to the top of a hill to make a phone call.

White pine and the Lion's Head, before the wind arrived and our feet turned to stone.

Ocean Study #4 - Bodega Bay, CA

One hundred and twenty acres isn't what it used to be. Sometimes you run out luck and firewood on the same day. When I watched her ride away I thought maybe she wasn't from Russia after all.

Not too long ago before the river froze over we'd take a blanket and lay on the bank and look for odd and inappropriate shapes in the clouds.

Sunrise at -20F on the Yellowstone River. Mystical fried egg.

Looking for a good book to read, you say? I know just the one.

Gazing out the screen door she thought about her youth and the time before the War. Now all she can do is wait, but she knows she won't. It's been too long.

The kiss of winter on the mountains. He would walk with a slight limp, but she never noticed. So he would straighten up and continue on his way.

The summer had past like a fleeting wisp of smoke. His pockets were empty. He was barefoot. In his arms he cradled a zucchini the size of a small child. It was time to go home.

The summers of his youth were filled with cheese burgers and unrequited love. He had misunderstood his brother’s advice to be mysterious, and instead went on and on every evening about mysticism. 

You know what? She only loved me for my car. In fact, when I come to think of it, she only ever loved me in my car. Oh well, we were young, right? 

Quit being so melodramatic, she said adjusting the rose pinned to her lapel. They’re only potato chips. Would you like some help out to your car then, he asked?