Sprouting mature verse
Li Po the drunk savant
Burroughs cut a swath of Nelson Algren
I once saw Rexroth’s autograph in an anthology.
A true star voice emerges, singing to spheres
His constellations were placed in the heavens
Like thumbtacks on the infinite bulletin board
Bright orbs circle westward
Over Mt. Hood snow
Hoofing over terrains plaintively, no
Trudging only the city’s hard surfaces
Immersed in the streets and in angel’s faces
Seen only once.
Pearl-lights freeway ahead
A lackluster gem
An ornate Coleman stove
Age and dissent
In werewolf garb to meta into enemies of the night.
Broadcast news anchor on the beach—chest high waves threaten to consume him.
Breath of wildflowers and kelp, streams of reeds, the mike chord buries in his brain.
Red star, corner of bow, flinging singing arrow into dark, empty sky.
---Winter 1995, Portland, Oregon