Friday, February 25, 2011

At The Edge Of The Light

Life goes on, if you're a junco...
—Photo by Sam the Snake Man

—Tom Goff, Carmichael

Nature, utterly graceful about her knell,
in the mountains, and at times in the mere high hills
draping her doom about her silently in snow
issuing swift in gracious whiteclad drifts
or lentoing the flurry down to a down forged
of slow blue icicle-spike and bit-edge particle…

and oh the groan of noise with which we react,
tractoring, ramspiking, scraping, bludgeoning
away the pure, the deadly-as-cyanide
to the hypothermic & miles-lost drugged trudger.
Off it must come, off windshield off sheetrock
wall off burden-sagging roof; and my thoughts
haplessly snowshoe to friend K.K. in Pollock Pines

riding a Toro- or Lawnboy-sized snowplow,
rumbling against this most implacable
& whitest-capped of tides…to adapt
a phrase of Robert Hass: in February nights
do these her waking dreams not harrow
as, over and over, she enters the ice-aisle,
the ice-furrow…?


DAY JOB (for GL)
—Michael Cluff, Highland, CA

At my day job
I am forced deception
victim of the injection
to play by rules
worthless from inception.

At my day job
always constant rejection
appearance under inspection
by anals and fools
babbling with lips of correction.

At my day job
I rue my conception
workplace a bad inflection
gatherer of torturous tools
and oh, no one hears my plantive objection.


Limed in hot tunes
we gravitate towards a tower
of bike parts and donuts
rusty and rotting
in the daily shower
of mites and microbes
that make the sky into chowder
and my love into livid lemon smiles
and sneers frosted by glaze
from a demonic chaotic
pottery and shard factory
a job
Noah, Malachi, Elijah
and Job
forewent in 1923
or was it it 1936.

—Michael Cluff



blooms invade
rush in and out

before summer heat
dreams into tomorrow

seeks then recedes
before blooming

petals fall
in a short season

flees, sees sunspot
halos form

in the backyard
your city of light

saying eternity
a reverie, come

play with me
my child.

—Ann Privateer, Davis


—Ann Privateer

plump, full, in spring,
no bigger than a thumb

filled with sticky
ooze, its blood

flings out
multiple bursts

an intoxicating
web, sweet

to the eye
hiding patterns

scalloped green
crayoned bold.


Today's LittleNip: 

—Gary Snyder

It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light.



—Photo by Ann Privateer