Moody Vapor

Vagueness becomes a motion

And fulfills my show as an artist

Beneath a river. Spirits in a bottle

A nude woman squeezing a sponge

Like the careful thread of a wobbly

     personality

Is easily exasperated by color and

Dreams tossed at punches sympathetically

In burlesque. The magician is troubled

The impersonal coils into introversion

The Chowder River brings sorrow

To walk with giants. The oysters

Live on a farm. My face emerges in a

Correspondence with Henry Miller

Dear Henry I admire your tenacity

Now look at my face and tell me

About French fries. We whirl

Through exhibitions of metamorphism

Don’t we? And then the spoons chatter

With ghosts. The unfolding of ourselves

Is intriguing. Maturity crumbles like lingcod

Deep-fried in beer batter. The denizens
     of Deadwood

In a milieu of explosive dialogue. Please

Somebody help me. What is this life

The first thing that comes to mind 

Is the sun shining down on a lake

There may be some use in having a picnic

But because it is cool in the Abalone Lounge

We might also consider Kurt Cobain

Playing his guitar in a kitchen cupboard

We all like to jump into the light

When the smell of the lumber is fresh

Pain is sometimes sexual, but is that why

The English Romantics were so fond

Of frilly cuffs and collars? When the skin

Breaks blood appears. That is all I know

And silt at the bottom of a pond