Sunday, March 08, 2020


Listen to the recording here (podcast)

This vast grey white slab was once an outlet mall before the May 3rd, 1999 tornado outbreak sucked it into its vortex of change and dismay.

It was your birthday and we were dining at On the Border, watching the monitors as electric lines and transformers flashed abeyance to the tornado’s raucous sojourn.

Now, the slab is there, a perfect congregating point for 10 or so flashy cars seeking new owners; an impromptu car lot replete with hopes and dreams and the ghost’s footsteps over the vestigial trace of walls now long gone more than 20 years.

My mind's eye reconstructs that once-proud outlet mall, an important employer for a small town halfway between Tulsa and Oklahoma City.

It purveyed its quirky treasures and extraordinary values for Turnpike travelers on an Oklahoma New Silk Road.

It was my lovely prairie caravanserai; I loved to sip on a cappuccino and watch the ebb and flow of human interaction shaped around the buying and selling and selecting of those consumables we now consider our life.

March 7, 2020
Norman, Oklahoma


Listen to the podcast. 

The sharp snap
of the sacred
the sugar, the will

bent, persuaded
by slow syrup drizzling
down from on high
your words whispered

A delicate demitasse
in a tiny tangle
napkins, ribbons

The crackle of the wrapper
a sense of a new beginning
words lying on their sides
on my outstretched palm

the structure of belief

March 6, 2020


Listen to the recording here: Podcast.

Footsteps clatter
fairy tales crossing
a wooden bridge
or the slow ascent
metal wheels, the rackety thrill

Flags fly high
over the original immersive idea
a theme park
a triggered memory
what a Boardwalk ought to be
sands slipping away with the offshore currents

You know what friendship is
tides, currents, water sliding by
and suddenly you have a point bar or a barrier island

a towering rollercoaster on shore
a soft smile in your mirror

March 6, 2020


Listen to the podcast / poetry reading. 

Harsh buzz whine whir scream
blind illumination
You’re the perfect cicada
17 years of anticipation
a short sweet hot
moment of life
for life’s sake

I’m only here to breed
let’s get that straight
That’s why my hallmark sound is
of whip-sawed metal
and the concrete
you stroll down as though
summer would never die

If the night is sweet
the air damp and warm
the dog watering fountain splashy
with the sound of a collar and fur shaking
I may take a moment to stare into the stars
Imagine stardust under my incessantly vibrating wings

I saw you as you took that final fall
my pine needles will say nothing
As your wings turn to weeping
the night deepens
leaves not a mark

August 24, 2019

Brief Poems: Cattle on a Hill

Podcast: click here.


They cling to their dry crackly hopes and misplaced modesty:
Leaves that will not fall.

They endeavor to create an illusion of solidity and sempiternal life
Yet they simply transmit a message of never letting go.

Whether that is good or bad
I will never know.

Norman, Oklahoma
March 7, 2020


They are eating the tough dry grass of winter.
It fills their mouths but perhaps not their minds
except to remind them what it does not have:
stick-to-the-ribs grains and blossoming flowers.

And on a beige carpet
Jackson Pollock working with weeds, not paint:
dribbles of cocklebur, butterfly milkweed, hoary alyssum
and a poke sallet banner bending in the wind --
Hail, Spring!

The greening of the fields
makes my heart beat fast with joy
but I must remember –
the first greens are always the most deadly.

March 6, 2020
Norman, OK


The first few days of March
     come and go
         in a whirlwind of the mind
         when nothing seems to stick
               to the bare trees of memory
         until overnight white and curiously odorous
                                    flower clouds fly up

      punctuate the wordless
          timidly deciduous trees
          so that the idea of a message
                with its contradictions of beauty
                        and a noxious scent

      sends a message of reality
                rather than idealizing gazes

March 7, 2020
Norman, OK

Japanese Pear Trees in Oklahoma



Cedars burned by a prairie fire
two or three years now gone by now

half-naked skeletons
draped in scorched rags

their ash quaffed by the wind

somewhere between
desire and fear

march 7, 2020
norman, oklahoma


A field of sheep
A field of sleep

Those odd, square-shaped ponds
Storing oil pumped from shallow wells

The oil field below rumbling into a gusher
Men covered in mud and sweat

    Those were the days
    Oh yes, they were

Joy and infinite potential
Long before we knew –

    a lake of oil
    a lake of pain

From the highway, I see
   nubbins of wool

   knobs of cedars
          and a field

               drifting off to sleep

March 7, 2020
Norman, Oklahoma

I Will Keep You Safe

Podcast. Link to recording.

In 1887, a small woman with delicate features sailed with 14 families to Paraguay to establish the “Nueva Germania,” something that began as a grand utopian experiment, but in the end had fewer than 100 settlers. The doll-like charismatic leader was Elisabeth Forster-Nietzsche, the sister of Friedrich Nietzsche. Friedrich had already written The Birth of Tragedy, On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense, Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greeks, Untimely Meditations, Human, All Too Human, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Beyond Good and Evil, and On the Genealogy of Morality. But, almost no one had read the work. Two years later, Friedrich was to collapse, foaming language no one cared to hear. He was deemed mentally diseased due to tertiary syphilus (never actually confirmed) and treated with mercury, which did, in fact negatively affect his mind and his body.  Friedrich was essentially incarcerated in a mental hospital. He lived until the year 1900, the birth of the 20th century, which his ideas (mediated by Elisabeth, who edited, organized, and promoted) so deeply shaped.  When Friedrich collapsed, Elisabeth was still in Paraguay in her doomed utopian experiment.

Her face, tender and sweet like a model in a Northern Renaissance genre painting depicting life in the home, gazed imploringly to the knot of true believers gathered in the building sturdily constructed of red quebracho, its tannins permeating the humid air with a pleasant, woody cologne.  They sat on benches made of the bottle-shaped samuú, and many held small cups carved from cow horns, from which they sipped through a metal bombilla a cool infusion of tereré, a mildly stimulating tea made from yerba mate.

Elisabeth was unrepentant. Nueva Germania was not thriving, but it had, at any rate, allowed the true believers to escape the foul miasma of Europe that was infecting most of the tiny German principalities with endless, internecine war.

“When the sickness has passed, we will go back,” said Elisabeth.  She had not intended the sojourn to be a temporary quarantine. She and her husband, Bernhard Forster, intended it to be a model for the world of racial purity and the supremacy of German culture. But, potatoes rotted in the soil and their innocence about sand flies resulted in terrible infections.

“Last year, before dear Bernhard, passed away,” said Elisabeth, solemnly euphemizing the death by suicide by her partner and fellow ideologue, “He told me that we must go back to Germany with the truth, and I made a sacred promise to share our truths with the world.”

Elisabeth had in her possession the few published copies of Friedrich’s work. Word had reached her that he was ill, and her heart ached to go back and make all his, her brother’s, and her true believers’ pain and sacrifice meaningful in the world.

Above all, her own.

Heinrich Raus took a long cooling sip of tereré, and as he did so, the afternoon rain began, with thunderclaps.

“I don’t think we’ll go back. Once we switched from potatoes to mandioca, and we learned to take a siesta during the heat of the day, and also to raise the floors up from the ground, things were good,” he said.

What he did not say is that his soul resonated with the ghost of the soldiers killed in the Triple Alliance War, and he, too, had felt the presence of the luisón, the werewolf creature who feasted on the dead, and he saw all around him the impact of the Pombero, the trickster creature, who loved nothing more than to sneak in during the siesta and have his way with young women.

Sex and Death. Eros and Thanatos.

The ideas were boiling in the zeitgeist even before Freud, and Elisabeth’s dear brother’s passionate writings about the Dionysian in literature. In Paraguay, in Nueva Germania, they were living, breathing, sweating, and streaming with the rain of an afternoon.

“The outside world has suffered from diseases.  The outside world IS a disease,” she said softly.  Her true believers paid more attention when she spoke in tones between a whisper and a lullaby.

Her eyes slowly filled with tears.  Was it her fault that dear Bernhard took his own life? She suspected it was so. Was it her fault that Friedrich had collapsed and was being considered mentally ill?  She suspected it was so.  She was altogether too weak, too undisciplined, and her ideas about a better world only ricocheted from side to side inside the skulls of those she loved.

“Come with me, or not. It is up to you. But you know how I kept you safe while the whole world around us roiled and twisted with a murderous disease. And so, I will keep you safe.”

Elisabeth sailed alone back to Germany.  Her true believers stayed behind in Nueva Germania, clinging to the safety of Bernhard’s beliefs in the superiority of the German race and culture, even as they planted mandioca and yerba mate, and slowly changed their language to a blend of Guaraní. Each succeeding “pure” generation was increasingly deformed and mentally impaired.

“Oh, Friedrich!” cried Elisabeth when she saw her brother unable to get out of bed for days on end. “I will help you with your books, and we will make sure that you live on.”

Friedrich closed his eyes and imagined a self-designed modern Leviathan, many steps removed from the self-limiting monarch described by Hobbes. Elisabeth closed her eyes and imagined a Superman constructed from the building blocks of hate and fear, each block a chunk of a terrified citizen’s heart.

“Keep them afraid,” she said to herself.  She turned quietly to Friedrich and laid a soft, doll-like hand on his arm. Her other hand rested on a pile of his books and manuscripts.  What failed in Paraguay could prevail here in Europe, she vowed.

“I will keep you safe,” she said.

Somewhere in Paraguay in the light of the full moon, the pure evil of the luisón, the werewolf devourer of souls, glowed cool blue eyes.