Wednesday, October 11, 2017

Noah on First and Commercial

A weathered man sits on his ankles.
One good eye looks sideways
at traffic upstream, the other is
clouded over with cataract.

The cigarette is a fragment, a remnant
plucked-up from concrete, saved
from trampling feet. Under
a dripping awning he waits

for the 20: filled with character, unreliable;
an accordion ark that rolls down the safe,
but damp Drive to Hastings. Above
the crows return unburdened.

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Fall Colors

Like Gatorade—unnatural
aqua water surrounded autumn
yellows and reds scattered
up powder sugar-coated
mountains cuddling a shy glacier.

A small fish struggles on its side
at the surface—youth displayed:
vertical diamonds, iridescent spots
twinkle in the diffused sun trickling
down. Round and round. Then

revived. Into the depths, invisible for a moment.
Then white belly drifting to the clouds. Bearing
witness means clumsy theology applied like
toddler's experiment: how do star blocks fit
triangle holes? Mysteries: rapture or fall?

Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Is this Normal?

My new GoreTex jacket
hangs in the coat closet,
a handsome grey with
green trim: a silver fox

waiting for rain.

The forecast is near 20
and dry. I check
the active wildfires in BC,
scroll-down the page,


what a hectare is,
how big is a half-million,
why metric still feels foreign,
who was still worried,

is this normal?

200 dollars
for a bike rack—
from Germany, comes with
a 30 year warranty.

Still. . .

A sunny day in October:
the man with a snake and quick gait
walks past the coffee shop
that just ran out of cold-brew.

In Las Vegas: 50+ shot dead

with two dozen guns modified to be
automatic—politicians offer prayer
for victims, congress considers
a law legalizing silencers.