Looking Glass Books, R.I.P.

If you've been paying attention to local book news, you know that Looking Glass Books in Sellwood closed earlier this year, and Broadway Books is struggling. Even in Portland, one of the most literate cities in the country by most measures.

Support your local bookstore.

I lost a bookstore. Carelessness. I swear
I turned my back for just a moment. What
could happen? When I looked it wasn't there.

A sanctuary full of quiet air
that smelled of… books. That kiss of fragrant dust
I've lost through bookstore carelessness. I swear

I'll never take for granted, anywhere
the privilege of shelves to browse. A cut
could happen fast, when I'm not looking there.

A glass could fall and shatter past repair
and books just leave. The innocence of trust
is lost. My bookstore carelessness, I swear

is history: a page that I can tear
and throw away, a falling flake of rust.
It happens that I'm searching here and there

like Carroll's crew, with thimbles, forks and care.
Perhaps I can't prevent a closure, but
I won't lose bookstores carelessly, I swear.
It happens, still-- but I'll be watching there.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Burnt Toast

The damn toaster's on the blink again:
bitter smoke stains the kitchen ceiling black.
One day it'll burn down the house
and then you'll be sorry. Penny-pinching old bastard,
I went to school in the same clothes three years running.
I scrape black crumbs and choke on the stink.
Bitter smoke stings my eyes. I'm on the blink.
Pretty soon I'll burn the house down.
Then you'll be sorry.

--for Big Tent's predicament prompt. Or maybe the escape prompt. Possibly part of a series of poems using the sense of smell.
Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Rabbit Time

You have seen this. You know it is true.

Wolf Winter gave birth to rabbit Spring.
Naturally she was surprised
but being a mother, she could not refuse to give suck.
Spring nursed with ruthless rabbit hunger
like blowing up a balloon backward. Winter shrank.
Winter disappeared inside Spring
and coated her rabbit gut
like a quivering membrane of silver-violet.
Each of Spring's babies, who were golden-green and numbered thousands
carried a speck of Winter at her heart.

You have seen this.

Spring's babies danced lapine dances and kicked up their feet
but behind each brown rabbit eye
dangled a strand of silver-violet, like a snow-covered cobweb
and every Maypole dance wound them
into a shining skein.
We all dance in rabbit time,
spinning violet silk. Next year
Winter will come not as a wolf
but as a spider.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Word Salad in Flight

Constance, my ersatz angel
I raided the cookie jar, only to find
you had stuffed it with a plenitude of verbal grotesqueries!

The poems I've written since
have been convoluted, like monstrous pretzels.
A poem can only seat so many words
and mine are all overbooked.

Every flight is full on Air Constance
where lunch is word salad, served
in a big glass bowl.

-- another word salad poem, obviously
Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Heartbreak Radio (Love Song for Todd and Pandora)

Nothing but heartbreak on the radio this morning
Sister Eleanor was walking at Fate's right hand
No use to say "woman no cry," Mr. Marley
with the bad days in Ohio coming round again.

Are you there? Nothing but hail and rain today,
the operator couldn't find your number anyway.
Are you there? It should be warmer this time of the season
but half-melted ice keeps running down my dreams.

If I had a guitar it wouldn't weep so gently,
for what it's worth, the numbers say we're not doing well.
So I'll bend my back like a beast of burden
but even under pressure I will not back down.

Are you there? The people are strange and gray
and the rising sun wouldn't hear what I have to say.
Are you there? Together we can hold up the world,
be my pride and joy, I'll be your brown-eyed girl.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

On the Writing Life

Just to note that I have another guest post up at Write Anything.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Bone Emptiness

Hail decapitates
the daffodils. The sidewalks
haven't been dry in months.
A week into April
the air from my lungs still plumes
like steam from a kettle.

Slow exhaustion
sucks at each hollow bone
leaving clean emptiness.
The bones of birds
are full of air-spaces linked
to their lungs.

I am becoming a bird
instead of a steam engine.
I am becoming a windmill.
I am a bone flute.
I am air,
I am empty of air.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Reading at B&N Vancouver

I will be the featured reader at Barnes & Noble in the 'Couve, April 27th at 7 PM. This is a reading series I've been going to for a couple of years now, and it's a kick to be the main attraction!

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

She Escapes from the Tower

This house is the queen of the neighborhood,
rambling with gingerbread and a small tower
behind a stone fence set with polished agates,
thundereggs the size of your head.

Today a pigeon was calling from the roof
for spring, for a mate: Lonely, lonely,
come and find me on my tower
behind my stone wall.

Maybe we're wrong about Rapunzel.
Maybe she was afrad to leave her tower
for whatever reason, until the prince
said I'll help you but you have to come down.

She cut off her hair and wove it
into a silken parachute, double-thick.
She knew the first step was the hardest,
down the stair, out the unlocked front door.
So instead,
she jumped!

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Ends of an Ocean

The cherry trees bloomed while my back was turned.
Today pink petals were drifting among the rocks,
boulders brown and angular as neglected teeth,
engraved with the haiku of exile.
A glimpse out a train window
of a home rolling backward out of sight--
chipped now into stone with a steel-tipped chisel.

Meanwhile a couple was being photographed
in a bridal dress and a natty suit.
Holding each other under the flowering trees
and drinking from opposite sides of a fountain
like their parents, sipping from opposite ends of an ocean.

I thought the rocks had turned to a row of old women
wiping drops of Oregon rain
from their stone faces.
I wanted to line up a row of pebbles at their feet
and say "Here, Grandmothers,
here are your grandchildren."

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Bread and Butter

To the tune of Creedence Clearwater's "Who'll Stop the Rain." Or any tune you like, really.

Now that spring is coming
down the mountain, from the sea
Now that rain's stopped falling
for a moment through the trees
Give me bread and butter
Give me rice and tea
And I wonder, still I wonder
who will set us free?

Last year we were drowning
we were shivering in the storm
Burned our hopes of freedom
just struggling to keep warm
Give me back the roses
Give me back my dreams
And I wonder, still I wonder
who will set us free?

Saw the full moon rising
from a warm and golden sea
Saw my cities shining
full of people proud and free
Broken chains were hanging
from the flowering tree
And I know, no need to wonder
who will set us free.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside