all poets welcome!


Just send an email with "join san juan poets" in the subject line to

We will reply with an invitation to join the blog!

Saturday, November 23, 2013

Cnoc Song

hers is the stone like a cnoc
   mountain rills are crawling crystal
      down the valley at night
      toward my box and my oaken floor

who carries what the box
   cries like windfall
      that blows through
      the shadow of my flukes  

who is lost but
   finds winter heretofore
      in the sharp flank
      of the still cold north

while the sea rages by ice
   my dear and froth that freezes
      on breaming waves
      and salt in a felt slipper

who climbs the rock face
   for your health and welfare
      in the oaken valley
      of the old flipper

Monday, October 7, 2013


the clock o’ one in
the beginning stung
every little son
on red flannel fields

the fabled wayward
mind gone craquelure
unsteadied the view
of flowers sprawling

on the starry mask―
if the inhuman
fabric falls away
this late in a life

shows blackly the back
of the remotest
odorless lurking
not this no not this

is a pretty truth
in the ancient sense
vicarious not
hard to disbelieve

‘til the tentacles
of it clutch the breast
and seethe there   pulsing

cool poison   wherefore
should they not so do
now little mandrake
at the clock o’ two?

Tuesday, October 1, 2013


Monday, September 30, 2013

I wonder how much of the sun has already been used?
mandatory optimism
as usual
willful ignorance
maintained by a pinhead lobby
of invisible deities
they are busy being happily wounded together
how did you know I would ask that?
propinquity breeds objectivity
the sun is over the roof
but you wouldn’t know it
by the foot prints filling up steadily with black snow
dissidents are tortured back into dust
in the name of our valuables
it’s very hard to describe hellfire
sucking the oxygen out of the air
or symbiotic parasites taxing our hallucinations
driving us into their arms
in full knowledge of the default
immoral moment with a full stomach
full of fresh air
the mere poetics of our dubious limits
wobble the wheelchair-paradigm digging its teeth
into gravity
I stack your pancakes on columns of nickles
Oh beautiful feeling that makes everything more beautiful!

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

He's Dead

I’m dying to weep for Francis Sweeney,
dead in his eighties, a little too young
   for me, I’m hoping for a longer stint
on earth; lot’s to do ‘fore the last dog’s hung.
   It’s a life of oglemoon and sunsquint
         into the dark finis
manufacturing that aesthetic thrill,
   so long as it doesn’t pay you dim sum
   at all. It’s only ripe as freedom,
a door you open into a deep hill.

A drop in the salmon ladder really;
what do you reckon in earthly years?
   O, rare fertile roe in my wake when I rowed
the fishful of dreams unweepable tears
   to your little son over the charred road,
         which looms ungenteely.
Just beyond where the voltage sags the clay,
   someone holds a picture of your mother.
   ―This is all that’s left, they say. But smother
any concern, for you are well on your way.
At my deposition, Fran, you sported      
a bow tie! Some legal types, suing for you.
   I never did learn how it all turned out.
We went on to live as if this life were new;
   I put the melancholy ash to rout
         but it merely loitered
between our plots of brain material.
   There must have been a hole in your fabric
   the shape of his last moments, a rubric                         
I repeat, now that you’re ethereal.

My elegy for the elder binding
tie makes glaring the strangeness of my truth,
   a thing received of each sole emptiness.
My breath and selfish ways have gone aloof,
   so must it be, the very thing you bless―
         This is the last finding.
Somewhere in a library, bowdlerized,
   because they’re each one’s untouchable quinx,
   are books printed in invisible inks,
weightless tomes, imperfectly realized.

Somehow this has to do with Solipsism
because the very Greeks of knowledge light
   up like little planets going round me
when I catch them in my sundance flashfright.
   Which is to cry “I’m buried here, Sweeney,
         under a head schism."
I can wait with dignity forever
   if it means the non-believer suffers
grace as it pours it’s hail on strange, never
   to know for certain if it will snuff hers.

Thursday, August 8, 2013


Hawk roasting a
pig in the wild
thick tines of
hedge wenned from
a plain sense of
trackless waste
  in a man―

the sword that’s
erupted upon
it is built with
a practice, airy
sayings that must
be retooled with
the clear and
level mirage
   of one’s gaze―

when the hedge
is coals the pig
  is done, whispering,
  the hawk files (sic)
    away (the sayings).

Wednesday, April 24, 2013


Bink bonk went the Tron eating silicon bits
and the lovely trees Daphned about the orchard
formerly as young girls ungainly looped behind ―
   their quirks of charm fresh as a wave
      through the golden dry acres. 

Wit-free after long offgassing   
as the trees so near to the underworld
come a-moulting glass feathers as in molten-flowing,
   now cool, like cellophane, as ambience ―
     Tron! Glory ‘o the dry gold hills!

The programmer is lonely, isn’t it, Joe?
Well, see through it, Jack, said the VRP.
A dodecahedron of open faces
      where swim the universes,
      laving, then breaching, firewalls;

In the realm of the emanating strophe ―
in one realm, the place and it’s cargo poised
with most of all of it at the back, awake;
      and the food Tron must survive on
      bubbles like the sun in his throat. 

Monday, March 11, 2013

Invisible Weeds of Puissance and Pulchritude

There are hidden precincts as close as skin
To you, simulposed, one on another―
   Closed cavern on vacant nether.
   Yes…  covert are the fields they’re in.
      You go to a back lot
But don’t see the cave, where, I shit you not,―
I battle my own little Ragnarok,
Scarred by the event as a scald must be,
Missing you in the weeds where you stop to pee.

Where you loft your mindwave against the pale
Yellow edge of the concourse―  the daylight world.
   There your cognition may be purled
   Like a cul-de-sac; but, please, Hail!
      The sacramental pitch―
Tumbleweeded flats, perimeter’d by ditch,
That ants abandoned, squatted on by witch―
All but the mine, the middle of alone,
Where the twilight reigns and the gods turn stone.  

We must, perforce, the ancient rites perform―
The inchoate myth, and the phantasm
   Otherness, just a brief spasm
   From solitude to where we’re borne,
      Into the home life, dear―
A ramble in the empty meadows where
The secret places are from year to year,
The well-swept ground under the temple shell
Where, together, all things may, lonely, dwell.   

Friday, January 25, 2013

The Consolation of Poetry

Lumpen inhales this way and he can die here.
The head turns inwardwise to look at what drives out;  
Which obsessions commandeer, what silent hives abut
The bee glade, what constructions over cellar-fear

Are tilting toward effluvia. Odors of rose
Musk turn stink in the plexus that makes the world.
Despite, senses oppose: the projection is hurled
Upon the rocks and waters; while some suppose

The mind is bent under run-on propositions,
Thought experiments in a requisitioned skull,
Quotidian fissions blasting around a small
Wilderness in a universe of omissions.

Make it the case that the clock hands run widdershins.
That gnome doctors dig for the curative specie
Through cave-bound winds in a brain that bides uneasy.
Spring forward the horse, the rider and all his sins.

Is there art in the final illuminated
Hallways of the gods? The aggregate disperses
Into it’s several inks. The rare nib solved verses
Starring Sphinx― now he too shall be extirpated.