Wednesday, November 28, 1979

3 Poems from Michael Dow workshop

I am a shiny raw yolk
bundled up in a clear membrane.
You pick me up, hold me in your hand.
I ooze black ink through the pores
wherever your skin touches mine.

Surprised by the bleeding, you drop me,
and try to pick me up again, carefully.

And my softness eludes you.
I roll off your fingertips, away from your touch.
The blackness spreads over the yellow,
leaving only a flaccid sack behind.


With leonine head bent
and hair askew
he sits guarded
with arms and legs crossed
His gaze set on his leather shoe
he listens, nodding
as if in agreement.
I wonder how the syllables
rest in his ears.

Michael Dow workshop

I wake to the dawn
and take my breathing slow
We think by logical deduction
If logic is deduction,
then what is there to conclude?
I learn from the breath
It carries me where I wander
Along a slipstream of thought
liked a snake tasting
a breath a of sunshine.

Michael Dow workshop

Tuesday, November 13, 1979

UNTITLED half life of a hippie marriage


The ocean is the first
circulatory system
of creatures

Could this scorpio moon
newly shaven
stretch its beams
across the continent?

What is the half life
of a hippie marriage?


Saturday, November 10, 1979

The Cat Wears Red Sneakers

                    —After Kliban

The cat wears red sneakers. He's been hanging around here for some time now. He's heard that on the streets of Guerneville, it's a good place to hang out. He's as good as any punk. As he rolls up his tiger-stripe socks and shirt cuffs with such an air of nonchalance, you suddenly realize that you've met him somewhere before. Was it in the park when the fog rolled in in in grey cat feet? No, he's wearing red sneakers. Still, his feet could be grey underneath. If only you could induce him to remove one sneaker, then you could be sure.  But how can you ask him such an indelicate question? He may take offense, and depending on the moon, he may want to rumble, or even have a good caterwaul. Just look at his tattered ears. You know he can whip out a claw with switchblade precision. Suppose you were a ladycat, you could walk right up to him and drape your tail right across his shoulders and say... How about a little red sneaker, baby? But somehow you sense he's not in the mood, so you stroll up to him real cool, toothpick hanging out of your mouth and say, Hey man, got a light?

Published in Shadowbox/Sonoma Mandala

Thursday, November 1, 1979


I rode her through the years of growing
Her steady black legs carried me forward
into the murkiness of beyond.