Category Archives: Uncategorized
Visceral Musing
Here Poemy, here girl, here boy, hweet, hwheet, wheet… c’mon—atta girl, atta boy, c’mon. Bronkbuster’s muse is a dominatrix— demanding, abusive, beautiful, alluring, cruel, and dripping wet—smelling of sea and sagebrush. Mine is on cat’s feet, shifting shapes and sometimes … Continue reading
Haiku–Talent
Talent don’t mean shit. It’s what you do with it to make the world better. (graphics: CCO Creative Commons)
Under the Rug
Unbridled sadness sweeps me under the rug on the floor of oblivion, where cringing and standing tall are the same. My oceans are vast, my salmon are few, swimming with me under this rug; my heart is a defiant afterthought. … Continue reading
Reading Admonition
Reading poems– a bronkbuster, a recovered drunk, a morning iconoclast; all tell me: write something with velocity, not half fast. (Paul Zarzyski: Gordon Stevens; Richard Hugo: Hugo House; William Stafford: American Academy of Poets)
A Poem Comes
My impatience robs me of my observance, but sharpens my pen. I slice my ego into quivering hunks of silvery fatback, sputtering in the skillet I heat with my heart. Shame fits me too well. I am only as good … Continue reading
Haiku: Rain, Rain
Rain, rain, come and stay; all the green loves every day. Rain, rain, time to play. (iStock)
Dead of Night
Pulled out of Tonopah at half-past last heading up ninety-five. Rocks were glowing—sand was blowing, saw absolutely nothing alive. Realized then: what did I know, is there anything real I see? This highway runnin’ in the dead of night is … Continue reading
Smallity
We are sometimes so small, me especially. About small things. We get miffed because somebody asks us to do something and we are distracted from what we’re pretending to think about even if what we’re thinking about is banal an … Continue reading
A Celebration of Brian Doyle
Wonderful piece by Michael McGregor. Check it out: https://magazine.nd.edu/news/the-story-catcher/
Mystery Bird
A whirring tumble of notes; a small dark bird I cannot identify— no name where the song might hang. There is only sound. This morning arpeggio startles me. I find the singer on a high wire beak open, breath inflating … Continue reading



