I'm getting rid of my Google+ account

And here's why.

When I went to delete my Google+ account, I was asked to take a "why are you leaving" survey. Here's what I wrote:

I write professionally under a name that is not my legal name. I understand that this can cause my Google+ account to be deleted with no notice and no recourse. In addition, I understand that many people to whom this has happened have also lost access to other Google services such as gmail and Blogger. This would be catastrophic for me as a writer and is a risk I'm not willing to take.

I understand that there are problems with anonymity on the Internet; however, I've had this online identity for more than six years, have blogged extensively on my own blog and as a guest on others, and have been published professionally under the associated name. I am not a troll or a stalker. I'm a legitimate writer using a legitimate pen name.

I'm also not willing to be held guilty without even being given a chance to "prove" my innocence. If I hear in the future that Google has decided to be sane and considerate about enforcing Goggle+ accounts, I'll consider restoring my account. In the meantime, no.

For me it isn't even just an online ID: Everyone I've met in real life through poetry, eg. people who've come to my readings, read a poem of mine in a journal or read my book, attended workshops or OR Poetry Society events with me, as well as several members of the Portland Sufi community, know me by this name.

So, for anyone who's invited me to join their Google+ circle: sorry to be leaving, don't take it personally. I'm gone.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Ergot Weather

July in Portland: gloomy overcast
and drizzle, cool and wet. The rivers run
at record highs, and damn, that grass grows fast--
but soaking seedheads molder without sun.
It's years like this when field-rotted grain
spawns ergot madness, invisible blight
that taints the harvest. People go insane
from eating bread. Sometimes they die of fright.
Sometimes the sequelae include starvation,
hysteria, witchhunts and desperate plots
all from humidity and fungal contagion.
The worst I have to fear-- well, Heaven knows
it's less than lethal. Just unsightly blots
of powdery mildew on a prizewinning rose.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Birth of a Super-Villain: an ode to the blues

The damn radio is fritzed again.
The only channel that comes in
is full of divas warbling a modern operetta
in some urban dialect.

Let's be pragmatic about this.
I'm an amiable sort, generally--
but I gotta have my blues.
If the only way to ensure a steady supply is to seize world domination
I'll do it.

another word salad poem.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Deep Summer Blues

Cloudy out, my feet feel like lead
Messed-up song running in my head
City full of the walking dead
Don't you know it's deep summer blues,
deep summer blues.

Lawnmower snarling down the block
Wait for the ring or wait for the knock
Wait for the key to fit in the lock
and let out the deep summer blues,
deep summer blues.

I'd like to ride on the humming rails
with the poets and the hoboes and the nightingales
I'd like to travel through the Age of Steam
with the men who first had the steel dream
I'd like to fly like a southbound goose
away, away from the deep summer blues,
deep summer blues.

Block party band playing in the street
Dogs and friends get together and greet
at the farmer's market where people meet
It's only me with the deep summer blues,
deep summer blues.

Lord, you know it's not what I'd choose
But there's nothing good on the evening news
Sleeping and waking with deep summer blues
Can't dance with the deep summer blues,
deep summer blues…

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Plotting in Poetry

Another guest post at Write Anything.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Science Poetry cover art

Pretty, isn't it? I'll post again when the final product is available.
Collection available! Knocking from Inside

Noir, with Crows

Corpse
Black feathers swirled around the street
in slow summer breezes.
The dead crow haunted our block for days
moving from sidewalk to street and back
under some mysterious power. None of us touched it
fearing its sable iridescence, like strong acid
would dissolve our fingers
into depthless shadows.
No post-mortem was conducted
but there were theories.

Accident
Crows chase squirrels into traffic
and feed on the bodies. Risky business. Misjudged
speed or distance-- splat.
The mob that gathered up on the water tower
the day before, discussing things in urgent tones--
pure coincidence.

Murder
is the collective noun for crows. Solitary stealth,
the stab to the back, the blow in the dark
is not their style. Some corvine Caesar struts his stuff
before the mob on the water tower-- and they attack
bringing him down. It's a participatory thing,
no bystanders or spectators.

Suicide
A comedian gets up on the water tower,
struts his stuff, gets heckled. Raucous commentary
by crow critics drives him away. He may try
to find sanctuary with a brooding poet,
renounce the stage forevermore. If not,
death by glass. Not by drinking,
by a speeding windshield.

Execution
Avian nations are borderless
but not lawless. Atop the water tower
he stands accused by raucous testimony
from the crowd. There is no defense.
The sentence: death.

Natural Causes
There is no defense among crows
against avian encephalitis, bird flu, Newcastle disease,
or scaly leg. The only recourse
is ruthless quarantine. The flock on the water tower
gossips about plague, like medieval villages
during the Black Death. Every beady eye
is peeled for signs of sickness.
Coughing, he's driven out to die alone.

Audience Noir
Someone buried the victim, or the criminal
and left a stick to mark the grave.
We watch for crows to visit:
a gloating enemy, a grieving hatchmate,
a corvine Sam Spade with a cigarette stub
dangling crooked from his beak.
But though appropriately garbed in black,
they ignore our tropes. We return
no verdict.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside