Writer, Publisher, Adventurist

  Noon moon, city sidewalk a gyro draped in aluminum. The child holding his coat aloft by one arm is held aloft by one arm. Park leaves breaking into color. Two blind men compare dogs. Even the old dog in snow wonders at its breath. The cow under dogwood is the glove nuzzling away the hoarfrost. Blinded by the first flakes the ambulance cries for what it carries. Early workaday. Two women recognize each other revolving through revolving doors. My hands under the cubicle lights. Autumn? Spring? Nights at the Advertising Firm Quarter moon over the Empire State Building, unbranded.

  How can I put this? Star Wars is the new Odyssey. No new news but still news. No? If one believes in a populace representing their own beliefs & choosing new characters as heroes. If not, there’s always academia. There’s always an -ism, which means an earlier stab at dominant theory revived into council as the ultimate way to believe a priori. Liar. You dream better than you feel the truth of that. Yet God is chosen much, mostly, or anti-god, muchly, and Chris Hitchens dying choosing writing as God, into the final hours. Much love. Some more hiccups:   Spring rain taps the window. My refrigerator hums its one tune. Spring rain, and all the books here slouching on their spines. Sound of a saw—but when I look—child smiling from a tree fort.

  So I’m going to try & post something new each day. A poem piece, a little nugget of text, fragments of a story in progress, something. So today, four hiccups (haiku-like poems) that began & ended my last attempt at blogging: onward, upward, forever westward eyeing eastly, uneasily & perhaps awkwardly, but openly, hopefully:   On Mt. Rainier Log cabin porch swing— bugs practice shadow puppets behind the green leaf.   3 Hiccups in WA Is that my cat’s ghost or the computer breathing? New snow, old snow. World looks the same in an oilslick. Following a Korean dinner over oranges arranged in a white bowl she finds the rhyme in Stonehenge.