Begin Again   Wednesday, January 09, 2013

Posting just a little early. It's nasty out, cold and wet,  yesterday, today, and probably tomorrow. As soon as I finish this, I'm heading home for a long nap and may not  see the outside again until tomorrow.

In the meantime, still clearing out holiday baggage.

As that proceeds, my anthology this week is Best American Poetry - 2003 published by Scribner  Poetry and edited by Yusef Komunyakaa and David  Lehman.

Other poetry this week includes selections from my library, some of my own stuff new and some of my own stuff old, from last year, since it's is now officially over. Actually, once  again,  more of my poems than usual. I got to the end of the post and decided it was  too short so took the easy way again and used my own stuff rather than hunting down someone else's poems.

The photos are a mix  of stuff from old fashioned 35mm prints to the latest digital, from the Grand  Canyon to my backyard, from the late 1980s to last week.

Quite a mix.

eastern sky
Susan Dickman
guardian of my better nature
Paul Muldoon
Medley for Morin Khur
she the teacher
Rita Dove
Fox Trot Fridays
I have a secret
Charles Bukowski
the barometer
Linda Gregg
the woman weeps
Robert Lowell
For  Sale
Siberia Anxiety
Jonathan Aaron
The End of Out of the Past
upon seeing my first redwood in person
a sullen sun
John Poch
Winter Song
the story of our times
the skin game
Erika Meitner
you are invisible
circuit rider
who don't think it's great idea?
to the mother
an instruction in the grander scheme of things

We've had  generally lousy weather  for the past week and a half, a circumstance reflected in the first several of my poems.

eastern sky

eastern sky
like  an angry rose
by any other hue
would it sweet
    so smell

end of  days
    of 2012
a new  year's ending
        in two

and I  have no reflex
for  an old year
a new year
    an in between year
        a sky
as an angry
        the hue so sweet

no reflex
to  measure
the new number
    the old number
just a day
    you know
like any other
no reflex
for  seeing new
what I've seen
       or new days
       or old days
             or roses
                         angry red
no  matter how  sweet
    the smell
it's just another damn
in another damn
just another damn
just another damn

and I have no reflex
to understand
or teach it

just another
                    then gone

hasta la vista

The first poem this week  from The Best  American  Poetry - 2003 is by Susan Dickman.

Born in Chicago in 1963, Dickman majored in English at the University of Illinois and received an MFA in writing at the University of California. At the time the anthology was published, she was  teaching  in middle school.

Her poem was first published in Rhino.


and what are they do  do with pieces of it that lie in the grass
or  waft down afterwards, floating through the atmosphere

like feathers from a featherbed in the tale about the girl
who disappears down  a well and returns

in a shower of gold? What to do
with all the minute pieces, the shreds?

The air at times turns violet, the sun neglects
to warm the grainy strip  of sand we lie  on

waiting to be touched and transformed. And the body
falls apart like hair unloosed,returns element to   element,

distills itself.We are only bone and water after all.
Skin covers the gray-tinged grass like  the oldest balm

to  heal sickness. The air corrupts, dries it,
breaks it  down into its former life  of cells

to  join the inert world of  soil  and leaf.
They say Da Vinci's  molecules

still orbit the globe,that the air he breathed,
we breathe today. So that when  blood is spilled

when skin rains down  on this dry earth, perhaps
somehow, the earth remembers

          Jerusalem bombing February 1996

People who know me know that  I had to put my dog, Reba, down last year. My faithful companion of nearly 20 years, and,  even though I  have  another dog now, a beautiful blond named Bella, I miss Reba still  and probably will for  as long  as I live.

This  poem, written in January, last year, for shadowed the day I knew was  coming, preparing  myself, in a way, for the inevitable.

guardian of my better nature

I read yesterday
that a famous  soap opera actor
who I had never heard  of - hardly unusual
since  I seldom watch TV and never watch soap
operas - anyway, this famous soap opera  actor
I  never heard of killed himself
in a fit  of  grief
after having to put his dog down

people who have never  bonded with a dog
will never understand this, people who have never experienced
the deep emotional and intellectual and spiritual ties
between man and such a faithful companion will think, what a stupid 
man, this famous soap actor I never heard of,
must have been

and I suppose if I were one of  those emotional, spiritual, and intellectual
stunted through lack of the best friend every dog wants to be, then  I
suppose I might find it stupid as well

in fact, I admit it, even blessed as I  am  with my dear  Reba, I think it's stupid,  too

but I understand it

it reminds  me of  a poem the actor Jimmy Stewart once wrote and performed
on the Johnny Carson show many years ago

it was about his dog, recently deceased, a  long-time companion to both his and his wife,
and the loss of his dog,as he wrote it, was  as deep and  wrenching as would be the death
of any of his human friends

it was a beautiful poem, as beautiful and deep as any love poem ever  written, misting  my eyes
as I read it,
a truly rare event

later  I  bought a book of Jimmy Stewart's poetry that  included this poem, which as  it turned
was the only good poem in the book

(though I admit the poem was not harmed in any way by Mr. Stewart's reading of it)

it all reminds me of the faithful and presence and bond I share with my Reba, my dog,  the gentlest
and most loving of  all the creatures that roam our earth,very old, deaf,
arthritic and mostly blind, yet eager to please,
to be close to comfort and sustain my me in my low  moments and
celebrate with me the times when they are good

if I were writing this at home, she would be lying beside me now,
yet intent  on every keystroke,
her ears twitching
with every swish of my hand
as I move my mouse,
rising to gently lay her gray whiskered muzzle on  my leg, brown eyes,
cloudy now,  but still  deep as she engages my own eyes
if she senses I am  troubled

(and she senses everything that passes through my mind,  reads my mind, and if her
joints allow, be where ever I think of going before I get  there)

she is the angel of my better nature
and I know someday, even someday soon,
she will not be beside me
and it may be I who, like the famous soap  opera actor  I never  head of,
has to  deliver her to her  inevitable end

and,  though I will not kill myself or even write a poem as touching
as Jimmy Stewart's. I know a part of be hollowed with lose as I am left
wandering in the shadow of  secret  despair,
some part of me  lost without her, my better nature's gentle guardian

My next poem is by Paul Muldoon, from his book, Horse  Latitudes. The book was published by Faber and Faber in 2006.

Medley for Morin  Khur


The sound box is made of a horse's head.
The resonator is horse skin.
The strings and bow are of horsehair.


The morin khur  is the thoroughbred
of  Mongolian violins.
Its call is the call of a stallion to the mare.


A call which may no more be gainsaid
than  the jinn to jinn
through jasmine-weighted air.


A call that  may no more be gainsaid
than that of  blood kin to kin
through a body-strewn central  square.


A square in which they'll keep the horses' heads
by the heaps of horse skin
and the heaps of horsehair.

I'm always fascinated when I start  to think about the circularity of all things. This poem from last week.

she the teacher

out walking
in a drizzly, misty
rainy day

doesn't care
so why should

have my hat,
not  good in rain
but as the would-be
military leader
might have said - you
don't go  into  the wet
with the hat you want,
you go into the wet
with the hat you
plus, have my
raincoat given tome
by the most  generous
January,  10, 1967,
on a day much like today
wetly grey and miserable
for  man and beast
except for my dog who
doesn't give a whit
about ugly weather
as  long as she gets to
walk  in it, my own
weatherish preferences
of no interest
to  her

but that's
the point because
what I  was  thinking of
was not the dog,
but the miserably appropriate
on January 10, 1967,
standing in a wetly grey-bound
at the chow  hall
on the first day of an
at places inscrutable to my
wits at the time

the circularity
of things so much in evidence
this wet and foggy day,
a few days short of 45 years
since another wet day
soaked in fearsome anticipation,
differing mostly
in he details, instead
of following a line to pretty good
chow, I'm following a dog
who finds her inspiration in the out
and the wet, neither of us
fearsome no  in an anticipatory
frame of the mind,
me, the only one of  us
of 45 years past, she
happy with the day
as it  is...

she the teacher
from whom every day i try
to learn

The next poem from the Best American Poetry, is by Rita Dove.

The poem first  appeared in Callaloo.

Fox  Trot  Fridays

Thank the stars there's a day
each week  to tuck in

the grief, lift your pearls, and
stride brush stride

quick-quick with a
hell-ball-to. Smooth

as Nat King Cole's
slow satin smile,

easy as taking
one day at a time:

one man and
one woman,

rib to rib,
with no  heartbreak  in sight -

just the sweep  of  Paradise
and the space of a song

so count all the wonders in it.

Here's another old piece, but not so  old, from January, last year.

I have a secret

I  mentioned
Ma and Pa Kettle
in  a crowded room
and no one knew what
I  was talking about

as in a couple of weeks
I complete  my 68th and begin
my 69th year on this earth,
a reminder of  the things  I know
that those still  struggling with the
challenges of youth
do  not

important  things
not restricted to  Ma and Pa  Kettle
and The Bowery Boys
and Boston Blackie

important things,
I can see,
for better or  worse
the string of my life fraying
and know  the string  which frays  will  someday

an epiphany
denied to the young of 28
or 38 or  48 or even
who never notice
the string  of life
they traverse
in the humdrum of their daily
until  the day
its  sorry state is made clear to them

until then,
death is an unfortunate event
affecting  others,
never them in all  their glorious

not that they ever think in those terms

and immortality,
issues, like the price of potatoes
in Cambodia,
that just don't apply to them
no matter how many they see
laid out cold and still in a box,
no  matter  how many they follow
with their eyes as the unfortunate
are lowered into the earth, no matter
how many losses of  those  they know  and those they love
they experience in their  lives -

the idea  of one day it  will be  them lost,
them cold and still,
their  physical essence beneath a mound of fresh-turned  earth

an abstract
like the collision of galaxies in a faraway star system

the relevance  of death to all living  creatures,
the inevitability of decay's deconstruction,
is the shock that comes unbidden
on a birthday like the one I have coming,
notice of the candle that  flutters
and dies, this flesh and blood recognition of  the fate
of our own flesh  and blood
come only with the fatigue of age,
it cannot  be imagined before the dues are paid -
innocence must be lost
before the loss  of innocence can be known

this is when
like me, begin to face
the all we  still want to do
and the uncertain  time we have  to do it

Here's a couple by Charles Bukowski. They are from his book The Flash of Lightning Behind the Mountain. It's  captioned as being a collection of  new poems (meaning previously unpublished from the massive archive of work Bukowski left behind after his death)and was published by Harper Collins imprint ecco in 2004.


in the night now thinking of the years and the
women gone and lost forever
not minding the women gone,  not even minding the years
lost  forever
we could just have some peace now - a year of peace, a month of
peace, a week of peace -
not peace  for the whole world - just a selfish bit of peace
for me
to loll in like in green warm
water, just a bit of it,  just an hour of it, some
peace,  yes, in the night in the night  while thinking
of years  lost and the women gone  in this night in this very long

the barometer

your critics are always going to be
and the more successful you become
the more  criticism  you'll
especially from those
who are most desperate
for a taste of  the same success
you have

but the thing you  must always remember
regardless of the criticism
is to try to continue to get
better at whatever it is that
you do.

I  think what bothers the critics  the most
is  to see someone succeed
after coming out of
instead of from  their  very
special circle  of  the waiting-to-be-

critics and failed creators
dominate the landscape
and the more you successfully harness
the  power of your
the more they are going to
through intrigue  and
through their  rankling

you were never very much
to begin with
and that now, of course, you're even
less than

the critics are always going to be
there and
wen they stop, if ever, then
you will know
that your own brief day in the sun
is over.


there are at least
a thousand places
in this town
that serve a better
Mexican breakfast

but it's New Year's Day
and we're at Mi Tierra,
in the Mercado
on the west edge
of downtown, just east of
the University

t's a TRADITION...

for spontaneity
take the next off-ramp

of  unexpectation
and roses upsmelling so sweet
and monkeys riding coconut
trees like caballeros
on a bucking
and an old man
who walks with a
shouting -

be damned,
let's have some fun

My next poem from the best of 2003 anthology is by Linda Gregg and was first  published in The New Yorker.


There she was on Entertainment Tonight.
Someone had caught a glimpse of Bardot
after all these years.  Brigitte Bardot
running through the trees, across a meadow,
a dog running with her. The hair still long.
Then another part showing her on the patio,
aged. (Sun-damaged, we say). The  violation
of beauty never  happens just once.
When my father heard his beloved dog
had chased and killed the rancher's  sheep,
he went right out and shot it. Because,
he said, once they ran with the pack
and tasted blood it would never stop.

Here  are  a couple of my older poems, both from  January of last year, poems that could hardly be more  different from each other, except that both are  short.

getting back into
the daily poetry poppity-pop
frame of  mind
requires a step back
from the maturity grind
time to put on
our play boots  and
till the cows
come flippity-flopping
your turn to do the milking
my turn to lick  the
the woman weeps
the woman weeps
the coffin lowered slowly into the open grave
women all around weep  as well,  women
who  haves sat where the weeping woman sits
and women who someday will
the men, watch, knowing
there is a box waiting for them
and a hole being dug
a little deeper
each day
to  contain it

Here's a poem by Robert Lowell, from the collection, Robert Lowell, Poems selected by Michael Hofmann. The book was published by Faber and Faber in 2001.

For  Sale

Poor sheepish  plaything,
organized with prodigal animosity,
lived in just a year -
My Father's cottage at Beverly Farm
was on the market the month  he  died.
Empty, open, intimate,
its town-house furniture,
had an  on tiptoe  air
of waiting for  the mover
on the heels of the undertaker.
Ready, afraid
of living alone till  eighty,
Mother mooned in a window,
as if she had  stayed on a train
one stop past  her  destination.

Siberia anxiety

like a damn Siberian winter
out there...

not  really...

but it feels  that way,
after week of  cold, damp
dark days...

vampire weather

that  sucks the blood-life
right out of me

weather  that  slows down
to a turbid slug
the synapses that might
in better days
come up with a new idea,
some spark of creativity,
some little flash
of  a phrase
that  might link lives
one to  another,  conjoin  hearts
one to another, something  to spark an idea
that leaps  the gaps of time
and space, a spark  that might
open  minds  bound
tight one from  another,  minds
closed  in distrust and confrontation,
each against the other...

that's what this weather
takes from me
for I  am a clear sky
bright moon warm sun
type of person, sometimes  a rain person
too, not rain that  hangs frigid
in the rain,  but rain  that  I can  watch
fall,  rain that  I  can hear come flooding
off the roof, rain that causes the  creek
rise and roar...

a  week of dark days
and I  can  feel that same dark
rising in me

From  the best American poetry of 2003, here's a poem by Jonathan  Aaron. It was first published in London Review of Books.

The End of Out of the Past
    (RKO, 1947)

"I never told you I  was anything but what I am," she says.
Black and white, the sunset behind Lake Tahoe  looks spectacular.
She turns and goes upstairs, his chance to light a cigarette
and dial the operator.  She  slips  a pistol into  her  briefcase,
gives the bedroom a cursory final glance. A moment  later,
sitting on the couch, he hands her a shot  of brandy.
"Thanks,"  she says. "Por nada," he answers, pouring one
for himself.She  says she thinks  they both deserve a break. "We deserve
each other," he replies, and wings his glass  into the  empty fireplace.
She's unperturbed, strictly business, already in Mexico.
His sleepy expression shows he knows  exactly where they're going.
Night has already covered most off the country. The airwaves
are vibrating with the strains of "Sentimental Journey," "Satin Doll,"
and "String of Pearls." As they get into his Chevy stationwagon,
I could be five and just waking up from another nightmare.
Half  the world is lying in ruins.

Here are two more poems  from last year.

upon seeing my first redwood tree in person
this  tree
when Christ's cross
was virgin timber
to  grow  as millions
have come to life
and died
false gods
and their believers
from the lists of the living
the true God
if she exists
lives here
a sullen sun
a sullen sun
through urine-yellow mist
slithering through high  grasses,
winding around wet-hanging trees
like a snake
in the garden
the morning
and darkly
a morning
another one
to  add to all the  ones
a morning
victory over dark conclusions
one more time

Next, I have two poems by John Poch, taken from  his book, Poems, published by Orchises Press in 2004.

The book includes no information about the poet except what can be assumed from his work.


The cattails nodding  above the marsh in autumn  breeze
fluff at the edges like buffalo fur.This is the ease
with which the prim girl  says of the pregnant farmer's daughter,
she let  herself  go. This round loneliness, this tatter
whitest on  the hem of  cotton light must  be  open
to gossip, pitying the truth inside it, hoping
the red-wing  blackbird will make  a cattail metronome
to  a music of evening wind,  knowing chickadees come
to line their  winter nests with the down of a  failure's bed/
Think of the daughter standing in a doorway, her head
against the frame, her  hair in tangles across her face,
fire light in the strands' inadequate embrace.

Winter Song

"At Christmas - dead time of the year -
When wolves eat wind, and nothing more"
                                                           - Villon

I walk  down to  the lake.While the cold  is shocking,
a peace descends in gusts and somersaults
through reeds - the hiss and whistle interlocking.

Tonight the sky's a dozen layered cobalts
awash with flecks of  God and angels talking
over whether you're one. So  nearly salts

are stars that melt the cold of space, unlocking
warmth like footsteps in a solitary waltz.
Along the shore, I count the threes while walking

the sidewalk  home. I pass the darkened vaults
of late  doorways as if I were a king.
Like this, I chain a whisper  to my faults.

the story of our times

I heard of this fella
down where I  grew up
who bought a restaurant
in the country...

the restaurant
had three very tall palms
in front, so naturally,
he named his new restaurant
"Three Palms" -

that was right before
he cut down
all three  palms...

make of that
you will, I'm not  sure
but am suspecting
it  might be a story of  our


on the northside

snow predicted
for this evening

I'll stay up late
to watch it

maybe 8:30 or 9:00 o'clock

anything that happens after that
is not part of  my

make of that
you will, I'm not sure
but am suspecting
it might be another story of our


on the river
huddle in the cold

not smart enough
to get out of the river
and go  someplace
dry -

the comfort
of the known
good sense every time...

make of that
you will, I'm not sure
but am suspecting
it might be even another story of our


I write  poems
even when I  don't have
anything to  say

but work very diligently
to  not say it

make of that
you will, I'm not  sure
but am suspecting
it might be just  one more story of our


many stories
of out time, you would think
at least one
would make sense...

make of  that
you will, I'm not sure
but am suspecting
the story of our time
is that none  of the stories
of  our time
make any sense
at all

Here's another old piece from early last year.
the skin game
not just he bag
we carry ourselves
around in -
it is an essential
the wrap
that holds together
all  the requisite parts
in all their proper places,
and processor
of the natural sun-baked nutrients
every body needs;
it is a sociological
ad cultural mark of genetic
or light,
a mark of long-dust
ancestral  origin, less so now
in the modern world
of connectivity
in all  things, a melding of skin
to the universal  tone
of coconut butter-swirl;
it is a tactile
and visual affirmation
of the essential elements
of art and pleasure
that affirm us,
the soft slide of skin on skin
in moments of passion,
the round curve
of a woman's breast and ass,
the probe of a nipple
aroused in a moment of anticipation
the impatient skyward thrust
of an erect penis,
the tender pleasure
as your fingers caress a baby's cheek,
the rough hard calluses
of  a cowboy's hand,
the soft tickle of pasture grass
on bare feet, the pain sometimes of parts
abused or inflicted,  such pain
as  important to the pleasure of skin
as all the softer sensations -
many things is skin
in this  game of life, soft and smooth
or hard and rough, the most  human of all beauty,
much more
than the bag we  carry ourselves  around

Here's another poet I didn't know before from my second-hand book store. The  poet is Erika Meitner and the book  is Ideal Cities, published  in 2010 by Harper  Perennial. The book is part  of the National Poetry Series, established in 1978 to ensure the publication of  five poetry books annual through  five  participating  publishers. Publication is funded by Lannan Foundation, Stephen  Graham, the Joyce and Steward Johnson Foundation, Glenn & Renee Scaheffer, and the Juliet Lea Hillman Simonds Foundation.

Meitner is the author of Inventory at the All-night Drugstore, winner of the2002 Anhinga Prize  for Poetry. She is an assistant professor  of English at Virginia Tech and is completing her doctorate in religious studies at the University of Virginia.

You Are Invisible

and everything is tucked in twice.
It is night-time at the Waffle House.
It is night-time and the Food Lion parking lot
is mysteriously full. All our durable goods
roll  like marbles down truckers's corridors
flashes of neon, void intervals, a clock
that doesn't keep  time but loses it instead.
Memory vanishes like an inside-out room
shaken over a trash can: the naked space
beneath the bed, the decorative throw pillows,
paste brooches and pockmarked shoes.
You are a city of resin, of negative space,
of chalk. I am the rupture between past
and future, a TV  antenna with crosshatched
arms outstretched. I write your name
in new cursive on the condensed glass
of the bus window, erase it with a trace of breath.
The floor here is littered with black gum,
with chicken bones, and flattened wrappers.
I am hurtling through transparent distance
beyond which there is no other.
All over town is not that far from here.
I can tell you where to find it.
You can't go into the dark alone.

Sitting at my normal table near the back at my normal coffeehouse,  watching it winter outside. Just came back in from walking my dog, Bella (of course, she didn't want to walk; she wanted to run and jump and play). It's cold, officially about 35 f, but feels at least 10 degrees colder, with spits of rain and sleet.

circuit rider

I could write
a weather poem today

it would be easy

I could take any one
of a number of recent poems
and just add sleet
and rumors of snow in the hill country
to my complaints about the dismal dark and cold
days during this particular  seasonal
cycle and, voila, a new poem

but, overtaken by the ghost of Richard Nixon
as many my age occasionally are, I ask,
 would it be the right thing to do?

better that this mention
of a seasonal cycle
lead me deeper, or at least

the circle of life,  perhaps,
the collection of spinning atoms
that joined to produce
the  circuitry
of me
and their eventual dispersal
as the fact of me becomes a fiction
in the cycles of the universe, atoms spinning again
that had made  me, forgets me, then
joined into another  circuitry of something else

like the spinning of my top
when I was a child,
thrown from a tight-wrapped string
to the dust, to spin, to make circles
in the dust, until the dying wobble
and the tipping over,  inert in the dust,
needing another throw to begin
another cycle of circles

like the traffic round-about
on San Pedro, where three streets
come together, where cars must circle
to go straight, like the circle around
the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, multiple lanes
circling, each packed with cars  seen
from the  top  of the monument as  a mass of
disorganization, the true and purposeful
circuitry of the cycle apparent only after study,
like the spinning of atoms may seem
random and  purposeless,  until the larger structure
of  organized circling and cycling is seen,  a rock,
a flower,  a cricket in the grass, you, me, spinning
inside as we, in our temporary form, ride the circles
and cycles of the universal circuitry of creation
and destruction, the waves we ride until
we are overcome by its inevitability...

and we end up on a winter day, the normal
season cycle on an arc between  summer and spring,
and a poem like other poems, differing only
by the addition of sleet and rumours
of snow in the hill country

Here's a poem from early spring, last year, a fond memory on this cold, wet winter day.

who don't think  it's  a great idea?

legs are out

in shades of pasty white
to ebon night

according to ethnocentricital
on the basic and original  design...

all  that winter-chilled
thrown open to
warming sun,
arms and shoulders
and bellies
and the beginning swell
(and sometimes more)
of peek-a-boo

good god-amighty, man!
ain't it  a glory-smack-straight-in-your-face
time of year

who in the world don't think  that's a helluva grand

Here's another from early last year, a subject I could rant on for hours.

to the mother

to the mother
of the kid
running around the coffeehouse

oh, dear mother,
I'm truly sorry, but you
and grandpa and grandma
are wrong,
your precious little prince
of the ravaging,
barbarian horde
is not cute,
he is  a pain in the ass,
and I'm glad  he's not my pain in the ass,
though I assure you
if he  was mine
instead of yours
he would not  be a pain in  the ass,
even if  it  required  a tiny bit  of
on  his little squirmy behind

I raised my kid,
now,dammit, raise yours
and leave me alone

Here, last for the week, a little instructional from me.

an instruction in the grander scheme of things
in the grander
of things
the world is
at  least  my part of the world
is  wet
which is wet enough
for me
since non-wets
in other parts of the
don't  affect
wet is
the grander
of me and mine
your not-wet
has entirely
no affect
on my wet
which is the
scheme of my thing
you may have guessed
is wet
and it is cold too
which is another part
of my grander
scheme of things today
and if you're hot
and dry
in the Gobi Desert
big fricking deal
since I can't see
how  that  has anything
to do with
cold and wet
is my grander scheme
of things
and searing desert
have not  part in
any questions?

Starting all over again with a new year, hoping  to get it right this time around.

As usual, everything here belongs to those who made it.

You can have my stuff - just say where you got it.

I'm Allen Itz, owner and producer of this blog and seller of fine books here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Kobo, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, and eBookPie

highly reputable places all


Places and Spaces

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second

Short Stories

Salvador - The Dreamer



Post a Comment

May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009
January 2010
February 2010
March 2010
April 2010
May 2010
June 2010
July 2010
August 2010
September 2010
October 2010
November 2010
December 2010
January 2011
February 2011
March 2011
April 2011
May 2011
June 2011
July 2011
August 2011
September 2011
October 2011
November 2011
December 2011
January 2012
February 2012
March 2012
April 2012
May 2012
June 2012
July 2012
August 2012
September 2012
October 2012
November 2012
December 2012
January 2013
February 2013
March 2013
April 2013
May 2013
June 2013
July 2013
August 2013
September 2013
October 2013
November 2013
December 2013
January 2014
February 2014
March 2014
April 2014
May 2014
June 2014
July 2014
August 2014
September 2014
October 2014
November 2014
December 2014
January 2015
February 2015
March 2015
April 2015
May 2015
June 2015
July 2015
August 2015
September 2015
October 2015
November 2015
December 2015
January 2016
February 2016
March 2016
April 2016
May 2016
June 2016
July 2016
August 2016
September 2016
October 2016
November 2016
December 2016
January 2017
February 2017
March 2017
April 2017
May 2017
June 2017
July 2017
August 2017
September 2017
October 2017
November 2017
December 2017
January 2018
February 2018
March 2018
April 2018
May 2018
June 2018
July 2018
August 2018
September 2018
October 2018
November 2018
December 2018
January 2019
February 2019
March 2019
April 2019
May 2019
June 2019
July 2019
August 2019
September 2019
October 2019
November 2019
December 2019
January 2020
February 2020
March 2020
April 2020
May 2020
June 2020
July 2020
August 2020
September 2020
Loch Raven Review
Mindfire Renewed
Holy Groove Records
Poems Niederngasse
Michaela Gabriel's In.Visible.Ink
The Blogging Poet
Wild Poetry Forum
Blueline Poetry Forum
The Writer's Block Poetry Forum
The Word Distillery Poetry Forum
Gary Blankenship
The Hiss Quarterly
Thunder In Winter, Snow In Summer
Lawrence Trujillo Artsite
Arlene Ang
The Comstock Review
Thane Zander
Pitching Pennies
The Rain In My Purse
Dave Ruslander
S. Thomas Summers
Clif Keller's Music
Vienna's Gallery
Shawn Nacona Stroud
Beau Blue
Downside up
Dan Cuddy
Christine Kiefer
David Anthony
Layman Lyric
Scott Acheson
Christopher George
James Lineberger
Joanna M. Weston
Desert Moon Review
Octopus Beak Inc.
Wrong Planet...Right Universe
Poetry and Poets in Rags
Teresa White
Camroc Press Review
The Angry Poet