the world is a chaotic breech

in morning sun we
front-porch it with
tupperwares of sorghum seed
and trays of coir+ mix
dimpling with our fingers
before dropping three
each in every indentation
sometimes discussing
sometimes a hush falls
our last name should
be sparkles say to cole
(age 7) who, every time she sees me
looks for the sparklyness
in my outfit
(today, it was the silver threads
in my pink-white-silver-stripe pee rag)
then we could be sisters
in the sparkles family
some of the many
resonant words from
pomegranate doyle speaking
in her podcast:
just remember: prayer and cursing
are the same thing, except
the intention is different
i call her glitterpot
she calls me rainbow sequin
i call her peacock feather
and iridescent dragonfly wing
scooping quarter-spoonfuls
of sandhill milkshake
(milk, sorghum, frozen strawberries/peaches)
with gigantic spoon while
alyssa says three each
about the bean burgers
lightest blue
cracked-open half shell
whilst stoop-sitting
near outdoor shower
sun spilling an orange-gold
on newly green leafing-outness
while shua brings up
ways to go about
relationships that
allow him to continue
maintaining his self-ness
the flew into
(as in entered)
my back tookie says
of the dream birds
the world is a chaotic breech
and i don’t know how much
say we get

it’s nice she says
under a pink sky so glaring
it’s almost improper
to have a brave bold ruffian
on deck

victoriously clasped

the key to loosening
a good clump of pummies
is to get the pitchfork going
perpendicular to them
alyssa and i notice
as we load up cart after cart
hashing out relationship shenanigans
uncle frank alyssa calls me

and i help resurrect
the almost-extinct nickname
by calling her boi


that feeling of everybody
cheering when you
catch what might have looked like
a maybe-to-impossible catch
disk victoriously clasped
in your grasp

mica and i check out
bed-bounce we laugh and notice
a scoop in the middle and
a definite uphill angle
where the feet nomally go
and emory asking
if he can jump up and down

three cars at once
on highway M
two headed north, one south
as i approach end-of-gravel
which hilariously makes me say
wow, busy day out here
(which is reinforced by the two more cars that pass
before i reach where the other
black-top-meets-gravel turn-off)


you wanna watch i joke
about a shoulder massage
gone wild (oil and pillow
fights feathers sticking
to skin)

sunset sky
orange-gilded edges of
purple clouds on
foil blue
and i count over 20 contrails
rachel observes
via video from oakland
where there is still light
in teh sky, an excessive
amount of eyebrow furrowing
most perplexing i say ever

girders and joists

you gotta fight
for your right
to parrrrtay
8:50 am impromptu kitchen-sing
before clasping clipboards
on garden walk
wherein we compile a list
of all the to-dos in
south garden, north garden,
greenhouse, hoophouse, herb garden,
look far and look farther
your pop caught you smokin
and he says no way
that hypocrite smokes three packs a day
livin at home is such a drag
yeah your mom threw away your.. best… pee rag
you gotta fight
for your right
to parrrrtay

rounding final bend on pre-dinner run
where the sound of the freight hurtling
is carried on wind towards us
so that it seems my two-dog entourage
and i expect that machine to come
roaring at us over the hill
even though the tracks
splay at least a mile away

five turkey vultures
wide-winged drifting
over us against cloudless
blue backdrop riding wind
coming in from the north


we toast to life
before taking our
first sips of cistern water
cool and clear from jam jars
we’re gonna drink the storm
we’re gonna drink the storm
we’re gonna drink the storm

after a steady winged parade
at the cat perch
(red-headed woodpecker
red-bellied woodpecker
blue jay)
i bring the  cat food bowl in saying
the bird buffet is shutting down


baigz and i standing around
the woodshed and bike shed
inspecting heights and angles and later
exchange glances at dinner when
someone uses the words
girders, purlins and joists
which remind me of
norteño new mexico’s
lintels and vigas


lia and i laughing about her
post-cold teenage boy voice
she asks what i’ve been reading
says the airstream is waiting
talks about the really-going-there
kind of commitment
that her front-yard wedding/marriage is
says any body of water will do
but lakes taste funny
in that salt lacking kind of way

mica and i laughing as we
read the serving size
on the tortilla chip bag
whose contents we
methodically crunched
our way through
label revealing we
consumed three servings each

erasuring back

sun bursting in morning windows
onto pale blue living room walls
in an iowa city house
on dodge street
whispered seriousness
drifting in on coffee wafts
from kitchen

corinne in safety glasses
chair perched with
orbital sander held to
gallery walls
we spend the morning
erasuring back to flat white

click of my boots down
partitioned-off hallway
where art and i
journey to the wood shop
where we say hi and thanks to
the metal-head guy who hi and thanks’s
us back
talking writerly
as it applies in a real way to our
real live/work worlds

uncapping zinc sunscreen stick
and gliding its solid white across
pinksmooth of mica’s
wrist scar sun-exposed
at the steering wheel

somewhere between where we
exited from i-27 and turned onto
highway A mica points out
the church marquee that reads:
they’re not suggestions
they’re commandments

on mica’s side of the fabius bridge
three mennonite women down below walking
along river/creek bed
each a similar body size
in a different pastel
further down highway m, a flock of more
pastel dresses wind-billowing
women gathered at baseball field
pitching and swinging
and just past that
a trampoline in a yard
filled with bouncing pastels
braided girls plus
men in crisp dark colors gathered around
(cars of dark colors gathered around them)

a return to the key-to-paper punch sound
of the Royal Quiet DeLuxe
thinking it is not a coincidence
that home is the name for
the row of letters where my fingers rest

ashby the cat
perched at my side on the
spearment bed rock while i
loosen the roots of weeds
sun going all tangerine
through the trunks and branches silhouetting
(how i learned on sauvie island in 2000
that weeds are not specific plants, necessarily,
but totally subjective
in other words – whatever i don’t want growing
in the garden bed
is considered a weed
even if, as in this case, it’s the edible
and fantastic wild garlic and wild onion)

honna draws a hat and bowtie
holds them up respectively
to her head and neck
while i laugh my taped-on curlique mustache off
on skype in imitation/’analog’ google-hangout-draw-style

wherein i leave
these patches and notes
in the cubbies of ty, tookie and baigz
as commemoration of
us surviving and the forest surviving
our newbie prairie burn fiasco

wherein i read the following poem in my inbox
written by ross gay and think about
a hammer hitting a nail square on its head
the usefulness of such a tool
and the satisfaction of such a tool
doing what it has been built to do
so well:

A Small Needful Fact

Is that Eric Garner worked
for some time for the Parks and Rec.
Horticultural Department, which means,
perhaps, that with his very large hands,
perhaps, in all likelihood,
he put gently into the earth
some plants which, most likely,
some of them, in all likelihood,
continue to grow, continue
to do what such plants do, like house
and feed small and necessary creatures,
like being pleasant to touch and smell,
like converting sunlight
into food, like making it easier
for us to breathe.


deer revealing

swallowtail-ish butterfly
dipping down in herb garden
towards yellow-gold blooms
and lifting off

how i oh, hi! the small blinking toad
revealing self through movement
in spearmint bed
in the same voice i use
for ashby the youngster cat

you are the master
of magnificence she says
in a non-dictatory kind of way
a triple conspiracy brewing
in karma kitchen
must be a millipede
(or centipede)
emory says about the
small spiraled shiny brown/gold
creature i hold up in my palm
em and i trade a sip
of fancy ginger ale
for a gulp of
sparkling limonata

picnic-table sitting
in d.r. courtyard
tyler and i revisit
dan kelly’s terminology
art cut
for my hair
laughing whilst we sip
our respective

deer revealing
itself while turning
into the woods
at bridge edge while we
gravel-roll our
way towards home

i would never
say anything
just to appease you
i say regarding the
square-shape hulk-face

many homes i say
as opposed to home home forever home
in regards to the question of

from the water world:

Children form a reef fish on a beach in Hong Kong on the 3rd annual Kids Ocean Day. The event is aimed at raising awareness of seas protection and the conservation of coral reef worldwide. – 

a couple bandanas to tie

pummying future winter squash beds
in look-far
ty and wu wu and i go on a
early-mid 90’s singing tirade
including but not limited to
the cranberries
sheryl crow
pearl jam
how i bend over
with pitchfork in hand
to howl
life is a highway i wanna ride it all night long
and how tyler laugh saying
all i need are a couple bandanas
to tie around pitchfork handle
which looked like a mic in a stand
the way i was bending into it
cackling while dropping forkfuls of pummies
as i begin the chorus of that blind melon song
all i can say is that
my life is pretty plain
i like watching puddles
gather rain
my favorite baking spice trifecta i say
cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg
when dottie asks what’s in the

cursing in the herb garden

for mica’s half cup of coffee
i hand her the kettle
with what remains
of just-boiled water
with which she’ll brew
the other half cup of coffee
to make her mug full

cell phone towers i say
disguised as trees
and how the photos make me
want to puke
por ejemplo:

cursing in the herb garden
(spearmint patch specifically)
at trees
and the way i lean all my weight
on shovel handle leveraging
grabbing-on roots
out of the earth
wrestling i call it
(later i expound upon
the choosing of
what lives)

collar zipped up on
winter vest
layered but too hot but
unzipped the cool wind
swoops in

mica, tookie and i singing
along to steve winwood’s higher love
followed by (just as i’m saying
there should be a higher love/feel it in the air mashup)
phil collins and the best
drum solo/breakdown ever


it’s because you’re in shape
mica says (when i respond to my
five pull-ups with a how did that happen?)
which might be
the first time in my life anyone
has ever described me this way

the crunch of tookie eating
seat-discovered matzah
tastes the same he says

chocolate chewies awaiting our
arrival on cooling racks
evenly shaped and spaced