Friday, March 29, 2013


dies (semi-colon)
Amy Winehouse, my grandmother
even the Son of God.

Every death should mark
a holy day
a wonderment
and suddenly you find yourself
eyes fixed on the ceiling
with a bruised knee
wondering what -

all the self-fuss 
was ever about.

"This love is like a drop in the ocean
Take this Heart and make it break"

U2  -Yaweh

to build a temple there
without floor, roof candle bed
mind into window

spit image, means to some end
in echelon ion
where ladder = knuckle

why knot thus: so as
upon a time once phoenix in fact
halcyon elude hatchet

“in this yard
—you could break your neck
looking at a star”

        —Ronald Johnson, out of “ARK 70, Arches IV” (ARK, 1996)

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

I Fell For

The big gesture
talk of friendship
clandestine hand offering
shakes in the dark
all the phone calls
sand-scrawled letters

such blue sky eyes
your worn chair in shadows
all the comings
all the understandings

over all the miles
mixed up years
slanted horizons
various pets, spouses

I bought it all
my head in the dream sands
with a hand full
of small change

Sunday, March 24, 2013

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Necessity Defense of Institutional Memory

So the free may remain free
     say the nightmare is
     the dream

so we are preserved
     he who believes takes a life
so a life may be saved
     the girl becomes an object
so the greatest devastation occurs
     let go her fingers    their slim cleave
so I may be replaced
by a machine    which in its violence    behaves
more like me

     the longer you live    the more these lies
     come alive

so the past splits in two:
     one stays in the past and dies
one past shapeshifts    walks with you.


Saturday, March 9, 2013

An Old Star

An old star ripped a new hole
glared out from its peek-a-boo
curtain as if to say the audience
was too young and shallow to witness
such a surprise performance.

“Such a predictable thing”
we heard the stars chatter
“this sequel of earthly events.”

- Debbie Calverley

Saturday, March 2, 2013

He Could Have Been

a truck driver.  Bono.
I'm just saying.
An ordinary guy in sunglasses
and a leather jacket
filling his truck with gas
under the bright yellow canopy
marked Shell.

He stands like he owns the joint
chin at a cocky angle
as if to say
bring it on.
The glasses hiding his real
an eye grin that speaks his joy
of the open road.

I wonder if he's on the road as much
as a rock star
if he sings while he drives
if his wife takes out the garbage
if his kids really know him
like he knows the road.

The light turns green
I've been staring.
He licks his lips
flashes a peace sign
as I pull away
reflected in the mirror
of his big black shades.

- Debbie Calverley

My Apocalypse

My Apocalypse
A woman writes to ask
how far along I am
with my apocalypse.
What will you give me
if I tell?
An origami fish
made from a dollar bill.
After the apocalypse,
we will all be in a band.
We will understand each other
"It's alright" and
"It doesn't matter."
Let "it" stand
for nothing.
A weathered, fleshy bicyclist
wearing bunny ears
and a tie-dyed shirt
says "Zoom"
as she coasts past

Rae Armantrout