Purity of cold
White noise, pillows and sheets
Orion’s belt above raw earth
Just shivers, tremors, pure cold
Pain for the clarity
my chattering reality
Of 7AM chill

You Don’t Have To Pay As Much Attention

You know, returning the rental car this morning, it occured to me – well, check this out. I’m driving down to the return place in Little Italy thinking about how the novelist learns that particular skill that serves him well in other disciplines. This is the skill of being in a little shaded glenn, just a few trees around you, and yet you have the whole forrest firmly in mind. That’s something you have to be good at to write a decent novel.

Anyway, I’m thinking all of this and I get to the return spot and the guy goes ‘Did you gas it up?’ and I’m like Oh yeah… and as I’m getting back into the car to head to the gas station I head my mom scolding ‘You’ve got to think!’. But that’s just it, or rather that’s just NOT it. See, I was thinking, I just wasn’t thinking about what I was doing. I was thinking in a free form manner about abstract concepts.

I realized at that moment that my little Zoomity vehicle is in motion here. Thinking about what you’re doing is a very old mode, a relic of the time when you had to pay attention or else. Example, as a farmer you couldn’t just take a few days off to write a novel – your crops would rot and your cows would starve. You had to pay attention to farming, at the expense of exploring the world. Now things are easy. Thank fuck, too. The world today’s been made for people like me, people who prefer to let their minds zoom out and wander into abstractions, zooming in on what we want to unstead of the particular task at hand. And one of the tricks here is to be just discplined enough that you get what you want while being liberal enough that you allow your brain to play to the maximum extent of possibility.

Language is the ways and means of ideas

I often feel as though writing were a wholly discrete form from the other artistic modes such as music, paint, sculpture. On one hand that seems silly, but on the other hand I think there is something there. After all, we don’t communicate or think in paint, whereas language is the ways and means of communication. And so becoming a better writer naturally resonates with becoming a better communicator, and the methods of writing – from wild-ass freeform to ultra-disciplined – have definite implications in how you think.

Poetry Scrap

My future space is teeny
A loft above your ceiling
When I’m feeling mellow
I’ll leaving your parties roaring below
Retreat to my hidie place
The warm private space
Created by stacks of books, poetry
My cot, place to pace, sanctuary,
Rain falling on the roof
Little acts of magic, poof –



TV the great invader
Braining the connected brought world
‘tainment blabbermouths and ill conceived
Notions of sexiness, satisfaction and fulfillment

Comforter though too
of familiar images sounds senses
Like morning football in Detroit
On turkey day, mom in the kitchen cooking
Grandma dressing at noon, dad in his easy chair
Drinking water out of his plastic cups
Like rewind
I get to watch it again
In memoriestereo of vibrant
Feelers familial,
Ice in my belly and Champagne in my veins


I don’t let those smokers get over on me
I take hourly breaks
Moments in the cold air to reflect on what’s what
From a distinct angle
I sit on the porch 5PM and watch the neighborhood
Finger its way home in a wash of cars
Back inside,
All that warm cooking smell and

Poetry Scrap

Sitting on my porch after thinking about design all morning

Two crows fling through my street like it’s a videogame
Vectors against the rasterized sky and trees
Houses and cars, the mail lady making her rounds
Blue sky, orange tile roofs, complimentary Spanish style
Waiting for sunset oranges
With a 3PM cocktail in its glass
Orange, s’a Jack Rose