Friday, August 08, 2008


“A great master does not move his puppet if there is no reason to do so.”
Japanese Bunraku instruction manual

Tuesday, August 05, 2008


I have a thirsty fish in me
that can never find enough
of what it's thirsty for.

Show me the way to the ocean.
Break these half-measures,
these small containers.

Let my house be drowned in the wave
that rose last night out of the courtyard
hidden in the center of my chest.

The harvest I expected was washed away.
But no matter.

A fire has risen above my tombstone hat.
I don't want learning, or dignity,
or respectability.

I want this music and this dawn
and the warmth of your cheek against mine.

The grief-armies assemble,
but I'm not going with them.

This is how it always is
when I finish a poem.

A great silence overcomes me,
and I wonder why I ever thought
to use language.



Monday, August 04, 2008


This is Wilson. He moves very fast all the time and only 2 out of 100 photos of him aren't blurry. He was born about May 29th at Wender Bender's house. He is a nephew to ElizaB's most wonderful cats. I named him Wilson because he looks like a tiny soccer ball when he lies on his back, which he does a lot. He's the most gregarious sort of kitten, and everyone adores him, especially the dogs. Only Mojo, who I brought him home for, is wary. But I think it will pass when the wildness of kittenhood wears off a little. He's got a bad habit of clawing everything, including my body, everywhere. I've been sporting a chelsea grin scar on my face courtesy of Wilson. But his extraordinary charming personality surpasses all his flaws,

Sunday, August 03, 2008


Drumsound rises on the air,
its throb, my heart.

A voice inside the beat says,
"I know you're tired,
but come. This is the way."