Start of poem–

Read but not said, dead cuz I didn’t self-

fed, or fund, two minus one leave me,

Assumably, reluctantly and bluntly I’m a done

Deed, replete but never delete, take a kind

Seat…  stars I catch from a distantly pondered

Patch, holy bath that chose me, wrath–

It Was Never Not Here


Why not give my




I’ll give me something,


Something that–

Something that I need.

Like what.


Something not


You can’t hold it.

Not an article or object.

But a state.

No, more than that.

So what, then?

Like I said,


A consistency, a continuance of

Some sweet singularity.

That I gift me.

For me.

This new me,

Or maybe it’ll


Some readjusted me—

No, hate that word.

But a re-calibrated me.

Circling myself in dreams and wants

This Christmas morning, so I jot further

Into this well, wishes and tossed coins stepped on and

Over but not

Too harshly,

Ubiquitous umbrage over

Visions—one thing for the rest of your story,

Day night left and what’s right,

No one can be sure so just give yourself whatever it is

You have wanted for long, for always,

Music or a house on the beach, some trip

To wherever, now I’m just walking in my

Own lack of sense, sensibility’s with little

Scaffolding, not sure how secure the

Structure is,

But either way I’m giving myself something today,

A portrait, a scene of a structured and scenic me,


One I’ll just play over and over, like some Hutcherson

Tune in a San Francisco club, back in the sixties, smoke coupled with

Notes of beer, or whisky and…

Another page in my stretch or stumble, peregrination of

This new character. We just

Met, I just

Drew him today,

Gifted the current self a self with a more roaring

Current, tide and tidal waves, tsunamis of



Why be at the equator when I can write from the world’s

Top floor?

But either way, You,

Merry Christmas.

Enjoy this new you, the new travel and chapter, story

And measures, three pages of the car rides, the

Photographs of mountains and sunsets in Central Oregon,

Visits to your old neighborhood, your old house,

The trips and the coffee in before-never-known

Haunts. This new gift haunts me,

Innumerably, and the life here now is garnished with Newness—

But not so much numeric as it is atmospheric, a clear and defined

Redefinition of self for this sitting and the days after and


And not so much qualitative either.

This new This is not in any dictionary.

So how did I find it?

How can I get it for self for ex-mas?

I’m not.

It’s always been here. I’m

A broker.

Internal transaction of realization for this new

New. Reading this to myself and I see what I mean, this

Is a gift. The most electric and textural of

Ever. The harshness persists in delicious chords,

Listening to myself read the note, the gift,

But it has no language, undefined but I know

What it is? So how do I steer with this new sight,

This new life,

This new containment of types and career,

If you could call this a career—

No, it’s beyond that too.

So from the planet’s zenith

I breathe and know what’s next

And don’t know but this is a religion,

A wild dogma of…


I don’t know.

It’s a gift.

A boon.

A light.

A Road.

I wanted this, this new

Newness, view from a cliff in Carmel,

My first step on a New York sidewalk.

And it’s mine, delivered to me from


Never happened before and that’s the point.

I point to 101 south, over the Golden

Gate, the to PCH, where

Everything waits. That drive,

That’s antithetical fright.

What I’ll tell my kids, my


Parents and sister and other writers that think like this but this is coded.

And not even I can translate what I just unwrapped.

Can you?

It’s New.

The only.



This is Now, collection of Nows finally collecting and

Congregating for

My pages. Language…

Why did I wait so long to give Me this?



À la fin… 

I feel better, more ME.  Not sure what it was about today, but it pummeled me up and down its block.  Maybe I deserved it for a lack of connection to self.  Spoken word in the vineyard today, as I’ve been meaning to do.  One victory midday.  But after that, I was surrounded.  By challenges and demands, hands stretched toward me for another pour, and me only wanting my own glass.  My own pours.  My wine.  My quiet.  Finally had all a couple minutes ago, just watching sprinklers throw water wherever they wanted.  Seated, safe, and finally composed, only at day’s end.

Rushing myself to another project,

affection of my object, but it’s offset–

I’m a tireless writer, fulfilling all stereotypes– you staying up way too pounding espresso and refusing to let go of the pen–

Wait, I’m in my own den of sharpened dedication, written meditation multitudinous..

No nay-sayer could ruin this.. True to bliss, go get it, hunt it down, now, not so much a know how as a know when..

I need somewhere to vent, and get paid from it, accuse significant currently,

Gem Curvaceous

Tomorrow, I promise more poetry.  More.  Wrote one today, that’s three in the last three days.  I’ve had enough of expected’s—  patterned mechanicals.  How does that work, look at the gears, me sipping another glass, that’s what causes the last fault-jitter.  But I do it again.  What’s wrong with me, this writer—  I’m a writer.  And I’ll stop there.  Be safe and quiet and under a professional bed, staple and file cabinet anesthesia.  Blitzkrieg jumps and I cover my ears but I’m forced to talk, the stooped transaction.  That’s fine, I invited.  4th, morrow, more marrow from the verser.  How would that work, stretch where my suppressions lurk.  Department chairs, my beloved bellow twerps—