Margins of the Mourning Page

on the margins of the spectacle of life
as it meanders & pushes
into focus, all is all--

routing is vessel & pressure yields to waste only
over muttering of vascular insults
where metaphor & coherence are compromised

the heart would feed the limbs out of its bird-hands,
the head pretending valves in failing faith

here is the room, here is the misspent critical resource of solitude
cornered into addictive isolation by scarcity & marker-bed flooding

(I don't know-- how do I find out what I don't know--
how can I act on what I need to find out in discomfort rush--
where is the balancing gear to roll the crumbling loader
among the spiking hurdles tumbled on the path?)

room is no room if abstracted space loses ground

foam & roam, room to room, a land anchor out of paper folds...

all is all, more is more & never the twain shall meet
in this fractured, dwindling life
from bed to verse in one fell swoop of dictionary desire

even along odd culverts by the piled debris
nothing is forgotten, nothing is forgiven

a simple game of all-too-serious tossers
gambling higher stakes away


Wolf House, Glen Ellen

As far as small-town watering holes go, the Wolf House might effortlessly lay claim to an impeccable, nearly unmatchable cultural pedigree, referencing as it does Jack London's burned-out dream home up the hill & the capricious relationship between popular literature & its cinematic equivalents with posters advertising near-forgotten adaptations of the author's texts, both less known & famous...