Along Coastal Waters   Wednesday, February 18, 2015

My pictures this week are from in and around the city of Corpus Christi, a middle-sized city of about 300,000 on the Texas coast. It was, and I guess still must be, a wonderful city, the 15 years we lived there being  the best years of my life. It's single demerit, very high humidity year-round, a misery that didn't bother me so much when we lived there since I grew up on the coast further south. It is only when I go back now to visit that I feel how bad it is.

It is a beautiful city. We moved, somewhat reluctantly, in 1993 for the typical American reason, a chance to make more money and a bigger splash in the world. It is 21 years now in San Antonio and I find I love the city and the hills as much as I ever loved the coast.

My anthology this week is huge, over  1,100 pages of poetry. The book is The Norton Anthology of Modern American Poetry, Vol. 2 Contemporary Poetry. My edition from 2003.

And the rest, as usual, my library, my poet friends, and me.

morning on Broadway

Kenneth Koch
Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams

pure as the driven snow, again

Sandra M. Gilbert
When She Was Kissed by the Mathematician

right here on old Broadway

Louise Erdrich
The Fence

or else

Annamaria Farramosca
Polycyclic Aromatic Hydrocarbons


John  Berryman
from The Dream Songs


from One Hundred Poems of the Japanese
poems by:
The Shogun Minamoto No Sanetomo
The Emperor Sanjo
The  Priest Sarumaru
Lady Sei Shonagon

moonrise on the desert

Dylan Thomas
And Death Shall Have No Dominion

one true  thing

Joanna M. Weston
Change the World
First Nations
Empty Jar

a slow  poem, like the day

Li-Young Lee
Eating Together

eating crickets on a Tuesday afternoon

Dan Cuddy

now that I sleep much later        

I was in a mellow mood last week  and it is reflected  in  my poems. Like this one, quiet little morning things.

This poem was originally about twice as long. I, after some consultation with my housemates on "House of 30," decided the poem was better if I dropped a last part of it  and just ended it as it ends  here.

morning on Broadway

an early, cold morning
on Broadway,
VIA buses making their pick-ups,
doing their drop-offs,
a major artery through the city
still, but not a commuter conduit
so early traffic is slow
and thin
and as serene as city traffic
can ever be

a fire siren
and all scatter as a long, red fire truck
races past, bellowing, "out of the way, out of the way"
its high-pitched yowl reverberating
from street-side brick and
mortar,  disaster somewhere

but not here

the street sleeps again
in the wake of the red tide

What better way to start an anthology of contemporary American poetry than with a parody of one of my idols, William Carlos Williams, an exercise in gentle humor by Kenneth  Koch. A poet, playwright, and professor, Koch, born in 1925, was active in his art until his death in 2002 at 77.

Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams


I chopped down the house that you had been  saving to live in next
I am sorry, but it was morning and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.


We  laughed at the hollyhocks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not  know  what I am doing.


I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next
       ten years.
The man who asked for it was happy
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.


Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was so clumsy, and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor.

Originally, I had an old rant here but decided I didn't want to start this weeks old poems with a downer. Besides I'm trying to get out of the rant business, anyway.

So this, something hopeful instead. Written in 2010, updated to be current today.

pure as the driven snow, again

a good thing
about getting old

you survive it

is that
as the years pass

more and more
of the people you wronged

die off,
allowing remorse

for past sins
with no requirement for restitution -

makes it easier and easier
to be the example

of rectitude
old  folks

are supposed to be -
meanwhile, my birthday

in two weeks
takes me to number 71

and I'm thinking
4 or 5 more

and I'll be pure
as the driven snow -


Here from my library is a poem by Sandra M. Gilbert, from her book Kissing the Bread, subtitled "New and Selected Poems 1969-1999. The book was published by W. W. Norton in 2000.

Born in 1939, Gilbert is Professor Emeritus of English at the University of California, Davis. She has published widely in the fields of feminist literary criticism, feminist theory and psychoanalytic criticism. Author of 8 collections of poetry she was a nominee for the Pulitzer Prize for non-fiction.

When She Was  Kissed by the Mathematician

The morning after the night she was
kissed by the mathematician,

she woke with a new

                      that words are spaces
I can fill, she thought,

with values of my own
(and as and at my wish

may be a proposition'
warm and lively as a kiss -

and that this  x can equal y
propo9unds a why I just might

someday answer
if I choose and will.

Rain had washed
the affable deck all night,

its invisible equations
echoing the lucid lemmas

spoken by the mathematician
through his musing kisses.

Gravity floated off
in the dawn sun

and she embraced
a hypothesis she'd long forgotten:

Energy, she declared,
as she bounded out of bed,

amasses in my sentence
bold as a theorem, old as light.

Beyond her study door
the garden bloomed with glittering proofs.

The part of the poem I cut from the end of the first  poem was recycled to become the beginning of this poem, then extended.

right here on old Broadway

sitting in my car
in front of my coffeehouse
on old Broadway - all  is
still quiet,  the street not yet awake to the hustle
of the new wave of young people
finding new homes
in the apartments that have sprung up
all along the street

I'm early
by at least a half an hour,
so I walk two blocks, through
the Pearl complex
to sit on the stone steps
of the amphitheater
that looks out on the river

very soon, even at  this early hour,
all will be  bustling with construction workers
working on the last major project
of the development...

the apartment buildings in the complex
are complete with near full occupancy,
ever at the very high for here $2 sq. ft. rent, and
the specialty clothing and gewgaw shops
will be open in a couple of hours,
and the high-end restaurants
will be opening for lunch at eleven...

in less than an hour
the parking lots under I-35 will fill
as  all the office buildings
open for the new day's business,
and an hour or two after that
the river taxis will be bringing tourists
from the downtown Riverwalk

in the meantime
there is me and the groundskeepers
and the construction workers coming to work
on the Pearl's crowning jewel,
the Hotel Emma,
a massive addition to the  rear
of the old brew house and it's towers rising
above the near downtown neighborhoods
along old Broadway since 1894, in its time
the largest brewery in Texas, a landmark
for all the years since, there for all my years,
like a castle transplanted
from the Rhine to the Central Texas

the hotel is to be named after Emma Koehler,
the woman who ran the brewery
from 1916 through the hard prohibition years
and until 1942, this woman's place not  at home,
but at the brew house...


and I sit there on the stone steps
of the amphitheater, quiet at first but for the series
of waterfalls that break the river's flow
from the museum and the zoo toward city center,
the morning honking of ducks working
their way up and down the river, their little flat feet
paddling unseen beneath the water, unseen
lie so much in life, the hidden effort required appearing
effortless, and for a moment, before the  workers' hammers
begin to echo from  green waters, and before
the two high cranes begin their work in the  sky,
I sit and remember...

I remember my father, a Pearl-drinker all his life,  one beer
after work every afternoon, two on Saturday, and me, waiting
for him at whatever beer joint was his  preferred at  the time,
sitting on a bar stool beside him,  listening to the men talk,
sipping my coke or seven-up, salted, like the men
salted their beer, watching bubbles rise to the surface
just as it rose up from the beer, and me,
as a child,, having my first encounter with the world
of grown-up  men, safe with my father, on a bar stool,
feet dangling, listening
and learning...

and I think as I sit by the  river...

all that beer from all those afternoons made right here,
the father-son relationship  that made me, begun
right here, two blocks from where  I sit now on old Broadway,


how ever-circling are our lives
and destinies

Next from this week's contemporary poets anthology is Louise Erdrich.

Born in  1954 in Minnesota, the poet grew in a small town  in North Dakota near the Turtle Mountain Reservation where her  grandparents  and her grandfather served as tribal chairman. Her  Chippewa  mother and German-born father both worked at a Bureau of Indian Affairs boarding school. The poet began writing as a  student at Dartmouth  College where she graduated with  a B.A. degree. She also earned an  M.A. from the Writing Seminars at  John  Hopkins.

The Fence

Then one day  the gray rags vanish
and the sweet wind rattles her sash.
Her secrets bloom hot. I'm wild for everything.
My body is  a golden armor around my unborn  child's body,
and I'll die  happy, here on the ground.
I bend to the mixture of dirt, chopped hay,
grindings of coffee from our dark winter breakfasts.
I spoon the rich substance around the acid-loving  shrubs.
I tear down last year's drunken vines,
pull the black rug off the bed of asparagus
and lie there, knowing by June I'll push the baby out
and easily as seed wings fold back from the cotyledon.
I see the first leaf already, the veined tongue
rigid between the thighs of the runner beans.
I know how  the shoot will complicate itself
as  roots fill the trench.
Here is the link  fence, the stem doubling  toward it,
and something I've never witnessed.
One moment the  young plant trembles on its stalk.
the next,  it has already gripped the wire.
Now it will continue to climb, dragging rude blossoms
to the other side
until  in summer fruit  like green scimitars,
the  frieze of vines, and then the small body
spread before me in need
drinking light from the shifting wall of my body,
and the fingers, tiny stems wavering  to mine,
flexing for the ascent.


This is another poem from  early 2010, an observational from my perch at my morning  breakfast place.

or else

the old coot
in the booth down
from me is being
more obnoxious
than any old coot
has a right to be, not
to mention more obnox-
ious than it's safe to be
give the frail grip
old coots
have on the slippery
slope of life

not to mention
my personal  irritation
at his behavior
and the way
it puts all us old coots
in a bad light

I thing
if  we had a vote
right here
right now
the old  coot
would be  locked
in a nursing home
in a New York minute
not to mention
I don't have a  clue
how long  a New York
minute is
but I'm guessing it's fast
since all the pictures
I've ever seen
of New York show
people  rushing rushing
rushing, not  to mention
I've never been in New York,
not even for a New York minute,
so I don't know for sure
about any of this
and like I said
it's all guesswork...


oh, hell,
now  the spouse
of coot
has jumped into
the fray,  acting
very cootish 
herself, complaining
about something
gripe gripe gripe
in her quivering
voice about the
hollandaise sauce
and I'm thinking
holy cripes lady
this is Texas
where complaining
about the bar-b-que
sauce is a god-given
right but when it comes
to hollandaise
you should just be
old Jake the cook
in the back knows
what it is and if he
thinks it needs a touch
of jalapeno well  old
Jake is the cook
and he gets to do it
the way he wants
so quit all your  old
coot complaining
unless you want to
brace old Jake
in the kitchen by his
cook pot yourself...


and it's too dang
hot in here -
I don't know why
people here have to
turn their heaters
up to 85 inside
the minute it goes
down to 55 outside

not to mention
I  think I'm about
a New York minute
away from a heat  stroke
here and think I'll have to
since I'm being  driven  out
by the heat
before I've even finished
my second pot of coffee
not to mention
my butt's gone to sleep
sitting  here
and it's gong to look like
I have a flat-as-a-pancake-butt
when I  walk out of here

not to mention
I've had 'bout eighteen
cups of coffee
since I got here
and will need to pee
in a New York minute
or else...

Next from my library, two poems by Annamaria Ferramosca, from the book Other Signs, Other Circles. The book was published in 2009 by Chelsea Editions as part  of their series on contemporary Italian poets in translation. Translation in this instance was by  Anamaria Crowe Serrano.

The poet lives in Rome. Although with a liberal arts education, she  was always interested in science and chose to major in biology, specializing in food science. Although a life-time reader and writer of poetry, she did not choose to publish until later in her life.


I sniff this wind
it smells - remotely -
like a damp room
the damp  smell  of childhood
or  perhaps it was only a boiled
chestnut, hidden,
having fun rotting.

Wind that made kites frisky
I would climb together with the wind
up the steps of the world
with my rebellious hair
my spirit rebelling too
over the years, from one wave to  another

Two-faced deceitful wind
I'm on to you
You want a tabula rasa, a candour
that fury does not deserve
This is why we are condemned to have two faces:
erosion, on one side
(the life you use up)
and accumulation,  on the other side
(your regrets)

Today I recognize your warm face
from the orgasmic whiff of sand
from the  pollinated way you blow from Africa
Tomorrow you  will be the arboreal profile
ice and thorns slapping my face

The wind whirls
Oh whirl, wind

Polycyclic Aromatic Hydrocarbons

And I didn't know I was discovering
ancient friends
on my underground travels
sucking up
small cries of benzene
among inert wakes of nitrogen
A poet can  tell - they say - the hidden sense  of things

But there are voices
of remote cells, disinterred
from ancient seas
little ghostly petroleum  souls
polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons
on a line spectrum
(the cries of the specters
arrive in a line)

They ask for their ancient sub-crystal peace
or simply to mix with us
- dust in each breath -
to become our body
even sticking
to the soles of our shoes
companions, one step after another
on our journey towards dust

What unifies us
primeval eyes all
Is the ancient sea
the mutual embrace when we feel lost

Here's a beach memory from years ago written last week.


tiny crabs
scuttle across the sand
under starlight

from a diamond clear sky,
like facets under a jeweler's whited light...

the tide advances,
washing over the castle
built by the small boy this afternoon...

the smell of salt water,
the earth's turning tide
white caps
and bubbles across fine powdered

waiting to close my eyes
to the glorious
salty night...

midnight on South Padre beach

ready to sleep
in my tiny camper
gently rocked by wet gulf

wrapped in the  low  rumble
of surf rising in the dark,
a few hours hence
toward the red-rising

John Berryman is the next poet from the anthology. Born in Oklahoma in 1914, Berryman was a poet and scholar seen as a major force  in American poetry in the second half of the twentieth century.  He died  in  1972.

from The Dream Songs


This world is gradually becoming a place
where I do not care  to be any more. Can Delmore  die?
I  don't suppose
in all them years  a day went ever went by
without a loving thought of him. Welladay.
In the brightness of his promise,

unstained, I saw him thro' the mist  of the actual
blazing with insight, warm with gossip
thro' all our Harvard years
when both of us were just becoming known
I got him out of a police-station once, in Washington, the world is tref
and grief too astray for tears.



Three around the Old Gentleman

His malice was a pimple down his good
big face, with its sly eyes. I must be sorry
Mr. Frost has left:
I like so less I don't understood -0
he couldn't hear or see well - all we sift -
but this is a bad story.

He had fine stories and was another man
in private: difficult,  always. courteous,
on the whole, in private.
He apologize  to Henry, off & on,
for two blue slanders; which was good of him.
I don't know how he made it.

Quickly,  off  stage with all but kindness, now.
I can't say what  I have in mind. Bless Frost,
Gentle his shift, I descussate & command,
stoic deity. For a while here we possessed
an unusual man.


I  considered not using this poem, not because of the language, but  because it is a fragment. The last  half of the poem has been lost. I decided to use it despite that because it says something I  think should  be periodically said. I tried to extend the poem, not as it was before the part was lost, since I don't remember it as it  was, but as I think  about  it now. The new added part is in italics.


I resist
the idea of "forbidden" words
because I think words  are words
and as a writer
if I find a particular
word is the right word
then I want to use it
because, as writers know,
finding the truly right word
is a glorious thing
in a world
where the word is most often
the nearly right word
or maybe the wrong  word

once found,
the right word
should be  used fearlessly
but that doesn't mean
all words
are equally in their suitability

for example
almost  never
use words like cunt
or motherfucker
or spic
or nigger-lover
or any such
because I almost never
write poems
where those words
are the right words, though
some do write such poems
that are good poems
that use these words  perfectly
and I applaud
both the excellence of the poems
and the fierceness of the poets
who  committeemen to the requirements
of the truth of their art

for I believe
is the first obligation
of the artist
and a word,
if used as it  should be used,
is  a form of truth
should never be denied
or rendered


every word
is a construct of centuries,
a mark of something  specific,
and with meaning that can only
be  otherwise approximated
no matter how comprehensive
your thesaurus

an idea
of something
different from all other  ideas,
carried from some dim past
to our world 
and time

to forbid a word
is to forbid not just the richness
of our language
but the reach and richness of our kind
as well

Next from my library, several short pieces from One Hundred Poems from the Japanese, edited and translated by Kenneth Rexroth. The book was published by New Directions in 1964.


If only the world
Would always remain this way,
Some fishermen
Drawing a little rowboat
Up the river bank.

          The Shogun
   Minamoto  No Sanetomo


I may live on
In the passing world,
Never forgetting
This midnight moon

          The Emperor  Sanjo


Deep in the mountain
Trampling the red maple leaves,
I hear the stag cry out
In the sorrow of Autumn.

          The Priest Sarumaru


Though you can tell me
You heard a cock crow
In the middle of the night,
The guard at  Osaka Gate
Will not believe you.

          Lady Sei Shonagon


All during a night
Of anxiety I wait.
At last the dawn comes
Through the cracks of the shutters
Heartless  as night.

Another quiet poem from last week.

moonrise on the desert

rise on the desert
as quiet as the day after death

a scrabble of rock begins
as night creatures
begin to crawl into the cool night
from lairs beneath the earth
where they sleep through the time of sun's

night blooms open,
yellow and orange and pink
beneath the sparkle cover the stars

lone coyote cries,
calling to the vast night dominion
for a scent of his
lost love,
alone and lonely with each turning
of the sky

Next from the anthology, another twentieth century giant, Dylan  Thomas.

And Death Shall  Have No  Dominion

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men  naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at  elbow and foot;
though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to  a wheel, yet they shall not  bread;
Faith in their hands shall snap  in two.
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't  crack;
And death shall have no  dominion.

And  death shall  have no dominion.
No more may gull cry at their ears
Or wave break  loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a  flower no more
Lift its head to the glows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of  the characters  hammer through  daisies;
And death shall have no dominion.


So many search and so few find it, the true thing. I'm still looking.

one true thing

growing up
in a bi-cultural milieu
I  learned a lot of dirty words
that I  never really knew
the literal meaning of

that's why
as I've grown older
and more cautious, I've
restricted my cussing
to English

fairly certain
that when I call someone
a double-duped-willy-whacker
I  know what I'm saying
and mean it

it is the way of many things
in modern  life,
superficial knowledge hiding
greater ignorance
of the deeper truths of living...

it is a truth, I  think,
that truth has many levels,
and try as I might, it seems
I never get much past
the basement

and sometimes
I despair
that I'll never learn
the real
of anything

but I keep trying,
part of what this exercise is about,
writing day after day, thinking as  I write,
hoping,  someday,  I'll reach
the mezzanine and know at least

one true thing

Next from my library, I have several poems by my poet-friend Joanna M. Weston.

Born in England, Joanna lives in Western Canada and is a full time writer of poetry, short stories, children's books and reviews. She has been published internationally in journals and anthologies and has a current middle-reader, The Blue Shoes and an earlier book of poetry, A Summer Father.

Here books are available at She also has a blog at

Change the World

I want to get off
and that would alter
everything     ripples
of difference sliding
across the  pool

reflections broken
face  erased

only a fading scream
as I leap into
nowhere     nothing
while oceans
of non-happening  close
over my head


let the tug of the sun
pull earth moon-side in
until the cosmos  shrinks
to a plastic wrapped packet
of  popped bubbles
their introspective shine
forgotten by tourists
who fly sideways  bent
on extreme add ventures
that take them past
glass castles shattered
on desert beaches
into corrugated mountains
that fall end over end
under the weight of air
frozen by atmospheres
of incoming stars black holes
birthing new universes
when this inside out ball
of exposed lava leaps white fire

First Nations

old harmonies
of ancient  songs
rise from salmon
through cedar
from ocean's pulse
on lift of raven wings
chants stream through
fur of Bear
as she stands
full-height singing
on cliffs of  immortality

Empty Jar

I refused
the last quart
of solidified honey
gave it to the man
at the end of the queue
who left it
on the bus-stop bench
where a bag lady
found and took it
for her kids
who scraped
the jar clean
saying it  was
the best dinner
they'd ever had

 A sleepy poem for a sleepy day.

a slow poem,  like the day

early morning coffeehouse,
but for Debussy's soft keys
overhead, coffeepot steaming
in the kitchen

the day still early gray,
the street quiet, the pace
traffic like bubbles
in a slow-moving

a new artist hung last night, beautiful
colors, lots of blue in many
hues, hung high on the wall,
above the large windows,
watching over the hush
of the new

a poem will come
if  I wait for it...

a slow poem like  the

calm and
like a pond
before small fish
begin to jump at silverfish
darting helter-skelter
above the green-mirrored

Li-Young Lee was born in 1957 to Chinese parents in Indonesia and is one of the preeminent poets of the East  Asian diaspora in the United States. This is one of his  poems I found in this week's anthology.

Eating  Together

In the steamer is the trout
seasoned with slivers of ginger,
two sprigs of green onion,  and sesame oil.
We shall eat  it with  rice for lunch,
brothers, sisters, my mother who will
taste the sweetest meat of the head,
holding it between her  fingers
deftly, the way my father did
weeks ago. Then he lay down
to sleep like a snow-covered road
winding through pines older than him,
without any travelers, and lonely for no one.


From five years ago, an exercise in questionable dining.

eating crickets on a Tuesday afternoon

I just ate a cricket
from Mexico

how he got there
I'll never know -

though overcome for a moment
by Groucho's ghost

it is true -
I just ate a cricket

and it was from Mexico,
dried and pan-fried there

and transported to  this  side
of the river

by Tim, the Timo  of
Timo's Coffee House,

who offered it to me
along with my latte and chocolate chip

cookie - it was  a dark brown
little thing -

the cricket,  that is,
not the cookie -

with more than a hint

of some kind of chili pepper
that gave it a bite

as it was chewed
and swallowed

a good taste, and an interesting
gustatory experience

though I could have done without
the stiff, hairbrush-looking


tickling my throat
on the way down

almost like they were still

I just used a poem here by my poet-friend, Dan Cuddy, a couple of weeks ago. Here he is again from Blueline's Poem-a-Day forum.


deep dungeon
light just ebbing in as it retreats
the shadows are home to the eyes
brilliant colors, emotions
chained to the wall
in a straw-strewn smelly room
occasional sounds outside
birds, human voices
can not discern meaning
except joy
and when I close my eyes I dream
a sweet woman in a silk gown
with me
staring at the crackling fire
the brittle break of a burned log
its almost soundless fall
into the ashes
the embers so
like love, yes love
and I imagine in the voices outside
love as innocent as the wind in the trees
the dance of leaves
occasionally I still shed tears
for being here
locked away
by time
otherwise dry-eyed

And finally, another quiet poem to end the week.

now that I sleep  later

now that I sleep later
I miss the dark
and its breaking, the
pink thread that cracks
the dark back of the east horizon,
a day opening in red and gold
and yellow.
like an egg you crack
for your breakfast,
just a thin line, a little break
in the blue-white shell
at first,
then,  like double, French doors,
the shell's rough edges split apart
to reveal the glistening pearl of golden yoke,
like the small fault-line
on the horizon, the crack of dawn
that pries apart the
bright yolk of day from

As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me.

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Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)

New Days & New Ways

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

Sonyador - The Dreamer

at 2:36 PM Anonymous Anonymous said...

fr dave eberhardt

i havew already commented on yr photography

let me look at the poetry

I was in a mellow mood last week and it is reflected in my poems. Like this one, quiet little morning things.

This poem was originally about twice as long. I, after some consultation with my housemates on "House of 30," decided the poem was better if I dropped a last part of it and just ended it as it ends here.

morning on Broadway

an early, cold morning
on Broadway,
VIA buses making their pick-ups,
doing their drop-offs,
a major artery through the city
still, but not a commuter conduit
so early traffic is slow
and thin
and as serene as city traffic
can ever be

a fire siren
and all scatter as a long, red fire truck
races past, bellowing, "out of the way, out of the way"
its high-pitched yowl reverberating
from street-side brick and
mortar, disaster somewhere

but not here

the street sleeps again
in the wake of the red tide

i see influence of ee cummmings at end- nice

otherwise-very wm carlos wms- might as well b prose- it's like a snapshot- yr photog influences yr poetry

at 8:23 AM Anonymous Anonymous said...

re dan cuddy poem "prisoner"?
the person in the photo with arms around dan's neck?
the reason his head is not shown is that this was a secret agent about to take dan away to prison- the prison described in the poem
please mail a check for the dan cuddy release fund to dave eberhardt his dear friend

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