Wednesday, November 01, 2017

The Perfection

the emails are becoming

less and less intelligible

but I believe she’s onto something

possibly something great

not quite human, words

wielded as articles of pleasure

and distraction

permeating an architectural membrane

shattering frail complexities

while leaving rigid statutes untouched

while she develops hot ideas

her soul remains unwilling
to release the blood

for the flea’s imaginative leap

but in fact maybe

this is the perfection

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

No Words: May 29, 2017

Midnight Requiem

T. S. Eliot: Do I dare to eat a peach?

Allman Brothers: Eat a peach.

Monday, March 27, 2017


hello! | check out my | fucking hex | ameter | fashioned in | J.C.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Fellini's Greek Class: eh-mar-psa-men

Amarcord (1973)

The poem is by Archilochos of Paros (680-645 B.C.).

The text in Greek:

Επτά νεκρών γα\ρ πεσόντων,
οu$ς ε)μάρψαμεν ποσίν
Χείλιοι ει)με/n φονήες 


Of the seven the fallen corpses
we trampled with our feet
we were the thousand killers.

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Dharma Poems

It is a great honor to have been asked to choose texts for the Appalachian Dharma and Meditation Center's new poetry page. This will be an ongoing page with poems cycling in and out. The inaugural batch includes poems by Chögyam Trungpa, Thich Nhat Hanh, Cold Mountain, D. H. Lawrence and Appalachian poet Jim Webb.

R. H. Blyth (1898-1964), Zen and Haiku scholar and teacher

Friday, February 17, 2017


Weland him by wurman      wraeces cunnade
--‘Deor’ ca. 950

Suppose a viper-queen had been able
to manipulate snakes with her hair
still I have never heard tell
of such a demented scene as this
or so bland an instrument of torture

No particle of this lore was lost on Weland
the crafty smith would change those runes
he forged a favorable thing for himself
restoring crookedness to roads
and houses, and swords, and thrones,
and caskets and poems

by means of worms
and curious cranial goblets.


The poem does not explain how he was able to fly.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Saturday, February 11, 2017


The goat-georgic below is also the first entry in a new blog I have begun, Into the Porches, where the reader will find the poems I shall be sending, on a daily basis, to the White House. Not the protest poems you may expect, and surely deserve, but strictly dulce et utile, prodesse aut delectare, for it is to be sweet and useful, didactic and delectable, that one strives. TC

                                                  And in the porches of mine ears did pour
                                                  The leprous distilment
(Hamlet I.v)

Poem Sent to White House 2/11/17

One of our goats,
miscarried last Thursday.
Three not remotely viable  goat-fetuses
were discovered
asleep in the hay.

yet at the same time
sort of beautiful in its way.
Nature's mind
is a corpse-chucking fuck-show,
as we farmers like to say.

We also have chickens
and bees
except the bees are gone

We were like 'Stay!'
but they  were all 'No.
it's time for us to go.'

Bye, honey.