I don’t trust the wind; she’s loved me like this before


I took a lover once; he sewed me to his spine, 

Neither round his girth, nor over his shoulder

Could I see the world he traveled far from me.

His sacred numbers blessed our holy hands,

One cradling his mane, the other locking mine.

Back then…

Lovers and landlords favored rent over poetry,

I, never the sort to drift far, the lair’s lure strong,

Offering dusty shadows beamed in dirty panes,

True love writ on a paw or whisker, soft-shuffled,

Whence the divan bearing swans sunk infinitely.

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Gemini’s Shit Storm

She says my moon’s in Gemini; I’m in for a shit storm as the planets configure. 

My gut gurgles, “true.”  

Storms a’ brewin’, 

a slanted wind tossing Bazooka bubble gum wrappers and wooden popsicle sticks across

the stoop of my youth.


Windward blows the dead awake; shredded zombies moan skyward cries. Stand ready.

Leeward gusts settle upon soot-trodden lace and rusted pipe, 

like predictable night crowning the inexplicable horizon.

There’s no way to tell, so breathe through the crackling wires’ electric veins.

Tear it down, board it up, and blame the weather.


Poised on the cliff, each steps cautiously, blind-seeking gripped edges, rocky shards of granite rubble, 

a death slide or eternal flight.

A cat agilely climbs the dresser stairs with jaws in machine gun chomp, aching past windowed perils.

She studies her predator’s patio glance back.

Coyote snouts flick-sniff, scuttling to flashed fear beneath orange trees and wicker tables.


Storm’s a brewin’. 

Pleistocene gassy beams once pocked the scarred heavens, now snuffed shut, 

too, the wind tilts mountains pebble by pebble. 

Lighthouse rays pierce the retinal fog, a grainy lightning chop of insight.

We’re all just kicking up some dust before we bite. 

What’s in a name?


Achunal the aleuts call it. Israelis say רוּחַ.

In Spain, they curse el viento tearing at hats and dresses 

but matacabras, goat killer, infuriates the shepherd

while angin or lilit in Malay mystifies most outsiders: 

Are there distinct names for degree, duration or character? 

Like a picnic zephyr delights an English gent or ahe a Hawaiian.

Puhe denotes the ordinary, common or imperceptible island condition.

When apples fly forcefully, a Russian complains of ветреный ветер.

What is the word for the puff left leafing pages in a book?

The sea brings Kadja in Bali sweeping aside sand softly

like a cat’s paw over the pond in the back bay.

But no, I’d never be caught dead in a Cock-Eyed-Bob down under.

Not while the night coromell caresses California’s toes this time of year

past Diablo and the doldrums thrumming silence into an ear 

merely at the thought of a place where nothing tossles hair, moves air

carries a wink and knowing stare caught glimpsing a drifting folded paper:

unraveled, it reveals your name, wordless moan escaping a window.

What is the name of your child, Shu?

Wind-Swept Day’s Percipience

Credit: images.fineartamerica.com

Outside my window, thick stubborn leaves
of the hardy, overgrown orange tree’s
sturdy branches shudder and sway
in the sweeping wind of mid-winter cool
on a sunny Southern California day.
Turbulent travel of the upturned earth
make me wince in trepidation,
my eyes burning with a pasty silt
swimming in the tears welled to protect.
Sighs whine, escaping through
too poorly insulated window linings.

This house, soaked with life, is weathered
worn as are most of its inhabitants:
fifty, seventy and eighty somethings.
It creaks and moans in wind and swells
sighs in the rain, arthritic in its painful joints.
Like us, it is in need of repair, extra care
reflecting the love above the strife inside.
We patch it along of necessity;
it shelters us from the cold in gratitude.

Weather like this, near tempestuous
yet mild all the same, mirrors the mood
of a sleepy house after a full night’s slumber.
The question lingers the hours with wonder–
why am I adrift despite a bountiful sleep?
Vexing, the answer weighs in abeyance
mid-way between the poles: acute curiosity
at one end, and the other, impalpable aplomb.
The clime of an indecision, windy-cool-sun,
thrusts itchy thoughts at my scalp like
“When will that email be answered?” and
“When will I know if my request is approved?”

A day like today, gasping and groaning,
agitatedly in disarray, is hospitable
to scalpel-probing limitless presence–
of each period on the page or dust mote
in the sun’s slender dusty ray laser’d on the sill
hedging that testy tree so peevish and pinched
with heat-worn unseasonal, dirty-drawn,
dotted orange orbits a’ring its edges.
The world is edgy and requires a long look
in the hurricane’s eye, fluttering relief
where calming pellucid perceptions lie.
Peace, my restive gusty sense, peace.