Poet of a Future America

In a future America I wouldn’t be able to call myself a Poet
—as every poem will be written in at least two languages.

If, on my morning
commute, all the street-
lamps go out, and the city

under dark, long
shadows, were to
succumb to the pressures
of life without
electricity— where,

then, would our eyes
turn? would the dandelions
still know up from

down, or would gravity turn us
inside out and swallow us whole?

Construction Worker

In plump raindrops, the construction worker, with his hard hat and faded denim jeans, dirty-orange safety vest, pulls taut a white string that comes from a manhole in the lane nearest the sidewalk. He labors slowly, like a man pulling a semi; like a centaur. With the rope over his shoulder each step is deliberate as he steps, one by one, away from the manhole. Each step a strain and burden. The object, which he pulls is never seen, always out of sight -much like the ones that are paying him. He puts the rope down, puts his hands on his waist, and stretches his neck. Students walk by, some chatting, some not. The sound of cars driving over the wet pavement rise and fall. Now the man begins to descend into the manhole. After not too long, when he comes back up, he has the other end of the string.

A Different Kind of Grey

deepening gray
clouds hang thick and low

crows scattered in
the sky and on patches
of grass, and in parking lots,

seem to be coming from
every direction.

and in my head
clouds part, and i see
that perhaps for the first
time in my life i have
outweighed the bad
habits with good.

and i feel good.

outside of Miller
Paint Co. painters
gather near the tailgate
of pickup trucks, white
pants, white coveralls,

painted and faded
t-shirts and flannels, talking
shop, perhaps a couple of them are looking for work.

and i think of
the faces of the young, of my children.

and i see the faces of the old,
of the buried.

and i see the household divided with friction,
will soon be the home of agreement, joy, and growth.

It Could Be Raining/The Myth of the Moderns

It could be
raining, but it’s

not — we both know
this, the squirrel

and I, it’s just the
wind playing the trees.

The ancients of modernity
those genius’ of invention —

they could turn on the
tap with the sound of their voice.

They also believed that
corporations were people

A couple of poems from this morning. Isn’t it funny how we revere the ancients for their closeness with mother nature, and in the next breath snicker at their outlandish belief system. I heard the story of the Andean peoples and the myth of the condor raising the sun. They told of how closely in-tune the people were with the sun and the changes of each passing day. They told a little of the myth of the condor and how apparently it was even believed that if one ate the dried heart of a real-life condor one might gain the birds power. This made me wonder at the stories they’ll tell of us three thousand years from now!


We are the culture to one-up each other.

We are blessed, let us rest.


This poem came about from the observation (after a week of listening to the news) that we seem to be only willing to point a finger outward, while completely unwilling to look inward. Increasingly we see, hear, and feel the effects of an ever expanding economy. This agenda doesn’t care for the human spirit. I see these effects in my thoughts of comparing and judging, and putting down in a desperate effort to lift myself up. Beauty is found everywhere with an open mind.