Friday, February 9, 2018

Patterns of Reconciliation - now available

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Sunday, December 10, 2017

Thomas Fire - Notes from Santa Barbara

Winter Wonderland
Day 4 (or Day 6 if without my early week business travel)
of living under a cloud of falling ash
from people’s lost homes in Ventura,
oak trees and chaparral from the national forest,
petroleum excavation sites,
burning rings on palm tree trunks,
drifting like feigned holiday cheer
same color as the snow fallen
on my friends, back in Atlanta,
dusting our parking lots
with its surreal dementia

I drove the other day, home from Los Angeles
along the 101 toward Carpinteria,
greeted by the pinkish lunar haze awaiting
at home, like a stray disturbing houseguest
you just can’t shake. Days later its tension-familiar
glaze still disturbs the dawning day,
so you sigh and resign
away any remaining dark novelty
Along the road that day, the burning
palms near beachfront homes along the 101, a sort
of dark bid at humor from the forces of the fire,
after running out of future hellscape to scorch
as it reached the ocean,
somehow surpassing green oasis citrus groves nearby

The next morning, I woke up with haze in my head,
faintly aching and feeling like the sky surrounding my eyes
and nostrils
I texted Melissa to find out if the university had masks,
they did but so did the tent in front of Costco- teal blue,
annoying the bridge of your nose even when bending
the thin metal sheet at the top
I got two and went back again for more to take
to Becky and the kids, who ended up bailing for Oxnard
by Sunday- she said like coming out of a cloud of trauma,
seeing the sun again once clearing south of Ventura
She sent me a picture of the mushroom cloud behind her
that we are still sitting under, Melissa and I

We’ve driven around the city,
noticing the slow drain of people- wearing masks mostly,
less and less of them and their cars
Any novel concept of living among such a mind-blowingly expansive
natural disaster, eroding as a new day unfolds with more haze and smoke,
and lingering advancement of fire
I hesitate to say natural disaster,
I don’t think it started itself

Every day the school systems text, call and email,
cancelling the next round of school, until the time runs out
and they’ll just have to cancel until the new year
But work must go on – I heard official notices have been emailed
in some circumstances, requiring vacation time or unpaid leave
even in evacuation
I can work from home, but others should go in,
or take up to three pretend sick days before a required doctor’s note

People’s homes and lives, hundreds of square miles of habitat, destroyed by this and others,
so unwittingly pervasive this year
among other myriad starts darkening days,
we remain fortunate in the acquisition of the past,

safe keeping of the present
with nothing owned or owed from the future

MM 12/17

Friday, November 10, 2017


It must have been a strange sensation
navigating tension neuroses, from space
Flesh and blood appear alike,
at least enough to be identifiable,
with some of the odd

Amorphous without clearly
delineated courses, spinning cones
shape clay into something
The day, shifting into hazy dusk,
drifting into Fall, sullen steps,
tracks uncovered

You bought me a tape,
King Diamond’s Abigail, when you took
me to the driving range
at some weird little record store
adjacent to a gas station in exurbs,
still in the 1980’s,
Sandy Plains

The weird little ways to make
with those who are thirteen
Oh, the horror spared you
in the lyric sheet
Lines compelled to cross,

Despite all sacred text, best laid
inversions stare back oblivious
to righteous origins
In brooding emaciation, the years affixed,
ungrateful and unknowing
lacking comfort and dignity
in your generations’ passing

MM 11/17

Saturday, October 14, 2017


Our wavelengths
jagged lines to frame
crucial axis
Points in cold fusion
divvied out
tension ‘cross intersecting minutes
Scattered foliage dissolves
wistful and crisp,
borne of shadows

Pale feedback loop
carving the course
we walk, divergent interests
in some form - boilerplate
confined in the waning
spaces drawn off,
driven throughout
its dissolution

Sucking sounds,
drying finish
deadened in its hands,
in flesh arisen,
a ballast in regulation
of damnation’s determinate
flow, seepage muddled
in the surface
sinking aground
wrapped asphyxiation

MM 10/2017

Saturday, September 30, 2017

Steady Hand Guides

Take this bread it’s my body
Drink this wine it’s my blood
Extend a trembling hand snatched away,
stirring up dust in a darkened space
lying behind creaking doors
rotting off their hinges
Offered in intervals bounded in service,
like sponges soaking saturation,
seedlings nurtured turning earth,
or bile regurgitated in sickness
from seething parasite
Returns remain in question

MM 9/2017

Stalking Seeds

Planted stalking seeds behind me
to watch years grow unfolding
in volumes, surrounding time
Subservient graces to upper reaches
in the arc of the shadow,
repelling light

Put miles on tread and between,
draining time from cold affronts
Awkward instruction quelling impulses,
tempering inspiration, bound
with laces of necessarily cruel choices
and judgement rendered

In living deliverance

Placated in rhymes finding
spaces to dwell the lines in validation
Redemptive finds pushing and pulling,
they drew distinct marks
met and fostered in quiet corners
shining on the surface

Journeys portended wedges
moving away from knowing places,
arising unknown or unrealized
A little surprised when expectations
held and gleaned in uncertainty
faded in the picture of years

In finite incompletion

MM 9/2017

Saturday, September 23, 2017

Sons and Ghosts

How do you hold sands’ streaming
tiny irreverent beads?
Containment irrevocable- paths etched
casted out of idealized space
filled by sons and ghosts within
their movement- fractured bounds
of wayward conviction

Staring across the table
an abyss of expectations unfilled
steps taken in haste and backed off
in words not said nor met
in immediate formations
Their foundation laid in parallel
fragments defrayed

Borne of static spaces
lying between containment and engagement
and resting restless within arrangements
disjointed discomfort’s
hush falls over its scene
heads bowed in grace
clearing of the throat

Cut from the same genes
but not the same colorful spaces
they remain largely unexplored in sorts
like demilitarized zones
Staring now at depth and limitations
illuminated down into your numbered days
I see my own mortality

MM 9/2017