Slightly before dawn
Looking out one
He sees Lake Road
With cars passing by
Spring snow
In headlights
A car, a truck

Turning around
The dusted lawn
And the lake,
The horizon
Visible in the        blue
Light even through
The flurry

Bare branches 
Of the Maple
Which clings
To the                bluff-edge
Waver in
Wind                  flowing off
Rough water

The world
Into which 
                       he is drawn


                Flash Fiction / Prose Poem

I go to Burning Man and the first stranger I meet is The Red Barron. 
He turned a tractor into a Fokker Dr.1, red with a black and silver 
Iron Cross painted on the tail. Oddly The Red Baron wears cargo 
shorts and is very fond of psilocybin. He turns me on with shrooms. 
He also turns me on to Mary the Mad Hatter, a forty something blonde 
with an absolutely huge blue floppy hat. Mary likes to chit-chat 
and is sharp as a tack by day, but at night she likes to dance, 
wearing only clothing made of glow-sticks. I go to her show 
high as a kite, my body moans; the glow is amazing when in motion 
to the drone of up-beat trance music, dance is what we all do, 
what we all grove to in the dark of the desert.

Looking around the crowd, I scan faces and spot my old friend LeRoy 
who I met back in ninety three at a Buddhist retreat in Santa Monica. 
He's an old hippy and looks like a cross between the fourth Dr. Who 
and The Gyro Captain from Mad Max, complete with goggles. 
I dance over to him and we hug, say a few words, and dance together, 
until he says "Love You Man, I gotta go find Wanda;" 
he turns on a dime, and spins off into the night to find her. 

Some people are born to be stars, LeRoy was born a comet.

When the Background Breaks (in progress, just notes really)

Step out into crisp
End of winter air
Wearing only jeans, 
A hoody,
And trail shoes,
The birds are back.

I traverse the lawn
to the stump at the bluff,
never looking down
but out at the horizon.

I get to the stump
and feel my foot loose
in the shoe.

A lone cormorant
catches my eye
as I lift my foot
to the stump.

Crossing one lace
Over another
while watching
the swimmer
diving for breakfast
I fumble the knot.

Looking down
I watch my fingers
work properly
not taking a lot
of time once the task
got my attention
rather than the bird.


How is it that we see      ourselves.
In the decrepit barn?
In the house,
The fallen roof of the porch
Torn down with age, rot
Rain, seepage, not the      explosion
We expect at the end of     being.

Are we what we do,
When we don't pay attention,
When we lift the door handle.

Walking to the edge
Of the meadow
One foot swings
In front of the other.



Gray morning
The shoreline
Below bluff heights

Half-ton stones
Tossed,           disarray

A wedged pipe
Bright in daylight
Against blackish rocks

A rusted bed-frame

Remains of a wind-chime
    Circle of wood
    Splayed wires
    Pipes long gone

No song
Left among         flotsam
Of our world



The first sign is vocal,
Multitudinous in character,
The voices of great masses
On the water.

This is a border land
Where bluff meets wave
And where, as the fields
Turn to muddy ruts,
The geese and swans
Come to rest.

The spirals of return
As trees begin to bud
Find the flocks, legion,
And like all migrations
Chaotic. Greetings in the dark
Wreak havoc on the quiet
Lapping at the shore.

In the gray morning
After the rain, poor
Sodden creatures lift 
Themselves to carouse,
The low clouds sliding
The horizon.

Disharmony, cacophony
Directionless and din
Flap-wing and swirl
Until finally a vee forms
Heading North,
For the crossing. 


Driving home at sunset,
Two blues,
One reflects the other
One moves the other to     scallop
Shaped waves at the        horizon.

I remember how you thought;
Always riding,
Window open, blowing smoke,
And song;
Yr long gone eyes.

The burnt orange
Through blackened trees
Makes the water appear more   than it is,
More than daylight brings,
A deeper investment
In hue at the last moment     of this
Which we know
As our world.