Arc Eternal

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Arc Eternal 


Emily Dickinson’s Refrigerator

‘Twas the vinegar that tippeth

Toward the leftover quiche

Oh, lonely empty bottle, recycler boon

When sun meets to kiss moon—

And mustard, your yellows bold

A bit old, but still at play—

Mummified lime, plastic lined

Awaits blessed water of the fizzy kind—

Four salad dressings,

Daughters of the virgin oil—

Bright Wednesday’s sauce

Must find solace at all cost

Before the scourge of poisoned moss—

A couple of red jellies

To keep a merry belly

Harvested during the sweetness

Of His grand spring—

A dire few leaves of spinach

Must be eaten in a pinch

Or thrown into a stew anew

Cat food can, oh my love be content  

Yet, small miracles abound

In these cool vestiges—for—

Behind the onion skins

And forgotten slice of apple

My hand moves with assured fate—

Look at what Providence hath left!

A cold beer is found no less!

O, wonderous workings, I’m blessed.




Moths Find Daylight


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Find a book I’m in here.

More images to be found here



The View

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The northern trailhead of the Oregon Coast Trail.

If I hike alone, I can only tell you what you missed.

If we hike together, we’ll see the view.


Here, the wind whips beachgrass, stinging our legs through cotton jeans, a grass that rattles its voice, a scolding, chaotic rustle. Our bare feet run across their roots to reach the soft sand.

There, we’ll see the side of the wind waves know, lulling us into a dreamer’s state, a duet with the flapping of our jackets, a rhythmic trance. We dig toes deep into sun-drenched sand, feeling the same heat, ‘til cooled by the night’s tide.


The grass settles into quiet view.


(Click on image to enlarge. More of Elan’s photos here.

Gilligan’s Soliloquy

TV or not to TV, that is the question

Whether ‘tis nobler for the stomach to suffer

The future of outrageous coconut cream pies

Or take bad dialogue from character actors

And by opposing, end them, and get cancelled after three seasons

To flee, to fly

To be rescued? We say the end to

The heartache, and the thousand bad jokes

That television is heir to, ‘tis a consummation (hopefully)

Devoutly to be wished. To die, to get canned, to sleep,

Perchance there are reruns?

Ay, there’s the rub

For in that cancellation and reruns, paychecks may come

When we have shuffled off our bad wardrobe

And should give the Skipper pause? There’s the respect

Who makes calamity of typecasting

Who would bear the whips and scorns of reruns?

The reviewer’s wrong, the insulting abuse

The pangs of being despised, or loved, and fan websites

The insolence of the network, and the spurns

The patient merry of th’ unworthy takes (over and over and over. Hey, this isn’t Shakespeare!)

When he, (that’s me,Gilligan) might his quietus make

With bare contract, burdens and little cash

Clueless and sweating under a weary L.A. set

But that the dread of cancelation

That rediscovered country of joblessness

Typecast emerges, puzzles, the agent

And makes us rather bear those ills of doing info-ads late at night (or candy bar ads in the afternoon)

Than to fly to others, like mom and dad, asking for money

Thus conscience, does make cowards of us all

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er the entire cast of Gilligan’s Island

Our enterprises, of great pitch and moment

With this regard our currents run awry

And lose the name of “action” — soft you now

The fair Ginger and Mary Ann, nymphs of my hammock

Be all my sins remembered






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More images found here.

Leaf Finder General

Puddle Reflection (click on image to enlarge)

She rakes leaves as if she’s in a battle with fall

With those pranksters of maple, oak, alder, and all

Who best be off elsewhere, staying clear from her home

Or sticking fast by autumn’s mist to the garden gnome

Better not sneak under her feet, returning to haunt the grass

I swear she’ll burn them like witches if they reappear in mass



I think her lawn looks nice, with a little extra spice

But I wouldn’t dare give her any advice

You see, I’m only her 8-year-old son

I just want to play in the leaves for fun




T.S. Eliot Bumps Into A Second Person




The voiceless have built a city within this city, structures embedded within the grid, pulled together by patchwork—cloth, tent, sawdust floor and plastic sheet. You’re there, measuring your life in coffee spoons, on that same street, right next to them. You see them working on bicycles, bus passes, rides. You see them through half deserted streets, a forager still intact in their genes. They hunker down with their wildness, lingering in pools that stand in drains. They follow you like a tedious argument. And what do you do? You come and go talking of Michelangelo, with the evening spread out against the sky. No worries, there will be time. You’ve still time to prepare a face for those you meet. You’re perfectly fine with disturbing the universe and asking “Do I dare?” You’ve time to settle your head on a pillow and say “That’s not what I meant at all.”  Not a problem. It’s perfectly OK to be misunderstood. Nothing will come of it, except some literary theory.

 But wait…You think you hear them.

 Bite it off with a smile.



Woman King

Woman King

More images here.


He’s moving to a song he knows and it’s a song we’ve heard before but can’t place.

As he moves, the sweat, sores, and scratches stay in place. What’s inside him is externalized.

He doesn’t care about our inner secrets, our inner fears, our hates, our loves that set us howling upon each other. It’s out/in him.

He’s howling, loudly, to someone that isn’t there, but we recognize his attempt to get through. At times, we think he’s trying to get our attention. We hear, but don’t want to hear. We shake it off, thinking he’s outside us.

His voice seems primal, an odd sort of desire. We recognize its motions.

Shirtless, he scares us. He slams the metal lid of a garbage can on the sidewalk, a sidewalk he will sleep on, a sidewalk we walk upon…every day.

We don’t help him.

We expect someone else to talk to him, clean his face, recognize the song and put it in a playlist, so when it plays, text pops up, telling us what it is.

We must move to a song we know. It’s a song he’s heard before but can’t place.



A Writer’s Guide To Revision

I peek out from the analog…paper skin, bone and water…hue, saturation…body tweaked with vibrance, a layering of edits, revision…revised with dark lines, shades on skin, adjustments…adhered, affixed.


My face, my story, a template, structure of desire, rouge of action…series of alignments…light and color, words to squeeze into a promising book with the softest palms upon its cover.

Truth has eyeshadow on, fiction in a fig leaf…never completely naked. My breath as sweet as apple, hair aglow, you’re reading all the signs, recite. The mirror is surrounded by the brightest lights, in the act of making things up.

 My real pixel lips, wet primary colors, loose yarn, no day, no night, no image, words bare

Only a deep, deep spinning



Buy me a coffee,

Buy me a coffee,

Fall’s Reach

Catching fall in the act.

More Images here.

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