Thursday, October 14, 2010

Like Silvergreen Shadowanimals

ArtCar at the Crocker
Photo by Michelle Kunert
(Is your car your best friend?)

for Tippy Biscuit Browning
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

My best friend never human is a dog:
what’s commonplace about that? She knows, she knows
to nose for food and wield teeth like a hand,
to dig and kick with stubborn hind feet a bog,
a right bone-burying bog albeit no leg
stripped of its chicken ever wound up below
her topsoil scrabbles in strata of hardpan.
No water dish but she pinks out the dregs
with licks. She guards rugworn perimeters,
harries with indignant nips our cats.
A zealous overseer of the kitchen chair,
from which perch she originates bitter spats
with puppy siblings—yet altimeters
fail to clock the height to which will reach
my feelings for her apricot and white peach
when fresh and cockapoo-trim in all her nap,
dog paw draped over man-hand, she fits my lap.

Viola Weinberg writes to say check out the new Blue Lake Review at There's a spot on the b-board in the Kitchen (see the flying pig) for where you're being published; don't be modest about sending us your creds! Many poets are looking for venues to showcase their work.

Speaking of which, tomorrow (Friday, Oct. 15) is the deadline for WTF8! See the b-board for details.


—M.K. Joseph

This girl
Waits at the corner for
This boy
Freewheeling on his bicycle.
She holds
A flower in her hand
A gold flower
In her hands she holds
The sun.
With power between his thighs
The boy
Comes smiling to her
He rides
A bicycle that glitters like
The wind
This boy this girl
They walk
In step with the wind
Arm in arm
They climb the level street
To where
Laid on the glittering handlebars
The flower
Is round and shining as
The sun.


—Mari Evans

where have you gone . . .

with your confident
walk . . . with
your crooked smile . . .

why did you leave
when you took your
and departed
Are you aware that
with you
went the sun
all light
and what few stars
there were . . . ?

where have you gone
with your confident
walk your
crooked smile the
rent money
in one pocket and
my heart
another . . . .



Weeds grow shamelessly
on my tongue
in the middle of a bed
of taste buds,
and among my hair's
mangrove roots
swamp-fish shoal
like fleeing silvergreen

My heart dangles
on its string
from my lower left rib,
if it gets broken,
I'll scatter it
like ashes on the top of my head,
—or perhaps
like gunpowder.

(Translated from the Danish by Nadia Christensen)


—Claire J. Baker, Pinole

For even as love crowns you so shall
he crucify you. Even as he is for your
growth so is he for your pruning.
—Kahlil Gibran, from
The Prophet

Yesterday she sat by a pond
she believed had never reflected
a crown more glorious.

Today, Kahlil, love prunes her
down to size. A swift river
swallows photos, flowers, poems,

sweeps away her crown. Prophet,
world, time, she whispers,
no one can crucify me but myself.


Today's LittleNip:

Friendship is a sheltering tree.

—Samuel Coleridge, from
Youth and Age



Photo (and LittleNip) courtesy of 
Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento