Spring Fever

I am spring fever’s bitch.

I am wrapped around her middle finger

which she has raised in defiance

of structure and order.

I cannot stop her

from spitting in the face

of all my responsibilities.

When I sit down to work,

She bangs pots and pans in my head

and I can hear the sun calling me out.

She wants me to burn

in the sun

till my shoulders and cheeks are

permanently flushed.

It’s like a hickey

signifying her possession.

“She’s mine,”

Echoes the sun.


Night Spell

The wind stirred up great currents of snow into the air, forming transient patterns like the mumarations of flocks of starlings. These vagabond apparitions appear and disappear in the yellow light of street lamps. The night is full of ghosts. There is the howling of the wind in my ears, like far off coyotes. The beech leaves are rattling in congress with the wind and the still falling snow. Trees rubbing against one another sing and cackle in the depths of the forest. I am out of the lamp light, struggling up a slick road that runs parallel to the trees. The ice sheeted asphalt proves too slick, and I abandon it for the powdery snow on the side, sinking in above my boots. I enter the forest path with some trepidation. Even after all this time I still have to whisper to myself there’s nothing in the woods, there’s nothing in the dark. My mother taught me that. I was a kid with an overactive imagination who could find eldritch shapes in every shadow. My mother told me that when she was young, she was scared to swim in the lake where she couldn’t see the bottom, only dark water going down forever beneath her kicking toes. She would say to herself there’s nothing in the lake, there’s nothing in the dark. But of course there is something in the dark. There is something in the lake and there is something in the woods. It is that “something” that conjures me to go outside tonight. There are a thousand voices singing and a thousand eyes watching. Tonight I can feel that the earth is one creature with thousands of eyes, thousands of voices. These voices seep together in a hum, and that hum coalesces in one low long heart beat. Right now these voices are rich and wild. I will admit they scare me with their utter ferocity. I tried to remember all those days I danced in the wind, called myself its child. But now I felt more the child, with a unknowable parent, a parent with no time to explain things, with grander plans that I could not begin to understand, and which therefore I feared. There was a glorious and vicious jubilation to the cold and the snow and the wind as I stepped out of the woods to the top of the hill. The stinging wind makes my eyes water, which is frustrating because I just want to see. On a clear day, you can see blue mountains stretching out all the way to the horizon. It’s dark tonight and overcast, colorful clouds gallivant across the sky, light blues of a mysterious color that I can’t describe and strange garish pinks from an unknown light source. Phantasms appear in the wind tossed snow dancing madly across the slope. The surrounding mountains are nearly hidden in the madcap mumarations of the snow. But I can feel them looming in the dark. I can feel the cathedralesque openness of the valley below, the land of pine trees stretching out to the mountains. I stood on the hill top and communed with my gods.


I lived my life in the long cool mornings of fall, and you,

You lived yours in warm and vibrant summer nights

Your air was laden with exotic spices from-


And mine with the cool fresh smell of mint.

You are a wharf rat, and I-

I am the child of farmers.

You lived from harbor to harbor- dock to dock

Working your way around the wild east

I live in the valley, the one you see

From mountains, hidden in fog

I drank the tart cider squeezed from autumn apples and the

Clear water that ran from mountain snowmelt.

You drank wine- spiced wine, warm wine-

Heady wine that coaxed the tendrils

Of your tangled mind

When I lie awake at night, I hear the contemplative call

Of owls, the wild chorus of coyotes

Or perhaps the lonesome

Cry of a fox.

And you, you hear the creak of wood, flap of canvas sail,

Lapping of water, gently hungering for you

Safe in your hammock.

I awake at cock crow, to the coo of mourning dove, and the

Genial shouts of farmhands, the cattle low for their

Breakfast and milking

And you, wherever you are, wake to the strange

Lamentations of a holy man in a tower

Singing in the morning prayer.

In a tavern attic, out of work, you don’t fall back asleep

Or begin your day, just lie-

Lie and listen-

Every sense straining,

For dawn.

Top of the World

I want to taste this world-

And the heavens too

I want to use the mountains-

As stepping stones.

I want to drink up rivers-

Let oceans fill me

I want to skip megaliths-

Across still bodies.

I want to hunt like a wolf-

Drink blood

Crack open bones-

To eat the red marrow.

I want to stand still as a tree-

Or a lonely rock

Let moss grow over me-

For thousands of years.

I want to find the lever-

That Archimedes sought

I want to stand at the top of the world,

Then step-

I Want

My brow is filled with heavy determination. There is a darkness in my thoughts but also the desire to overcome it, to be more than my failures. I feel the sun breaking through clouds, covered again, sparking the edges, grays and gold. I feel like I’m knocking on walls and suddenly hit a hollow panel. I’m resonating, vibrating, growing still, and am hit again. I am a cycle of energy and apathy. I am a writer, observing the world, catching the flotsam and jetsam on this river of life to build something extraordinary. I am an observer. Wide eyes and open ears. But sometimes I fade in on myself, for there is a world within me, galaxies within me, helixing behind closed eyes. I want to be alone. All these minds jostle me, all these galaxies. They overwhelm me, press in on me. Never could I understand, comprehend, each and every one of them. I am overwhelmed. I want to get lost. I want a shipwreck, a deserted island. I want my foundations shaken, a lighthouse toppling into the ocean. Storming seas, hurricanes, I want them. I want solitude and peace. I want a cabin in the woods. I want to chop my own wood. I want snow shoes and red cheeks. I want to shiver, my body trembling with life. Am I manic? My mood swings like a pendulum on a clock on a ship on a stormy sea. I want to run with horses, scare them into kicking up their feet. I want to move like a snake, feel the ground on my belly, in cool caverns on hot sunny days, a subterranean stream sounding the ground beneath me. I want to howl at the moon, drink in the stars, let them burn in my throat, spark in my eyes. I want to cling to a cliff face, muscles quivering and burning and look down. I am a songbird in the throat of a wolf, a black cat in the eye of a dragon. I want to scream myself hoarse. There are places I want to escape to, worlds I want to run to. I want to dance around fires naked in the moonlight. Don’t call me a witch, call me a god. I want my feet on long roads which I don’t know the end of. I want dirt and gravel in my boots. I want to sleep in the sun and walk under the stars. I want to be somewhere nobody knows where I am. I’ll go to the shimmering red desert in spring, I want to see what grows there. I want red dust stuck in the crevices of my boots. My eyes read stars like books, written by nobody. I’ll topple cairns, I don’t want to go home. I’ll be a leather tramp, my boots kicking up dust.