Romancing The Drought

Rib Cage

The mountain, hip bone of earth, shoots down a dry, hot wind 

Rattles the skeleton city, held together by a series of pins and plastic cartilage.


We hang refrigerators, like art, In our bedroom windows 

Who rattle clumsy tunes, instrumentals, transposing the fever of a ragged daze.


Between sheets of sea, in our urchin shells, we carve coolness into the shape of ocean waves 

And sleep with mountain ranges wrapped around each other.


More photos here.


Palms Stain Green



dried leaves garden history ferdinand olivier1

There is a roughness

A quiver, that tells things

The redness of spring cherries

Leaves, autumn raked.

Ears pick up the vibration

Voices attempt to emulate

But, it is the rumbling

Palms search for

The noise is subject to a tilt

A wobble, soft rocking

Oceans become glued in place

Only waves leap up

To embrace the shoreline, littered

With broken shells, agates

Bare feet and seaweed

Who move not by spin alone

Nighttime sand is searched

With the closest flashlight

We women are magnets

We men are magnetized

The land shrinks beneath

Feet insecure, toes curl

Docks built from dunes

Stretch out, onto the curve

The grating nails of wind

Ruffles summer grass

Is a sound never lost

During the length of dry dirt

No blade grows alone

Even if it wants to

Sprouts are wet when bitten

Palms stain green

A dampened grasp plants…

Rows, forming the finite

Tops of trees like spikes, sting

Glaciers melt inside the clasp

Flooding a string of rush hours

Our voices squirt out, parched

Between brittle clay fingers

And electric car windows

Canals are rerouted, rooted to

Fields of elongated greenness

Who chase the trapped sea

Lining the new desert in fur

They die before the kiss is felt

Sucked into concrete basements

Reserved for future invoices

Love can no longer get wet

There is a roughness

A humming, that tells things

The nakedness of new petals

The thump of ripened apples

Touch feels for the arc of the wave

The song is already memorized

But, it is the rhythm

Bones search for

dried leaves garden history julius schnorr1

She Is Not Among The Debris




She forgets the slow current’s nature

The bridge makes memory disappear

Both sides, anchored to one another

By concrete skin, steel bolts, a mirage

Beams and illusion. Hazy covenant

The shores are never separate sides

Only two similarities, held in suspension


The ferry allowed her a connection

Provided time, renewal, ages to swim in

Banks gave up affinity, held unique desire

Now she bites with identical jaws

into wooden docks, slippery,

overgrown with asphalt and oil


She interrupts the bridge at its heart

A way to swim, to enter the slowness

A means to disconnect, severe from sameness

The sky turns the river into blue invitations

It does not lie, but reflects, apart


The river, ashen surface, greyness, an area

There are always crests in the wind

As if the river runs backwards

She must be pulled up by hand


She is not among the debris

Spring runoff has plans of its own

Bunching up, with the bridge


She swims with all her clothes on

Singularities explode into dimensions


Her fall, is a taste of everything remembered