Without much explanation in words, I paste for your Valentine viewing, two collages I created two weeks ago with one of my son's. We talked and cut and snipped and glued into the wee morning hours. I have

I think of a red ball, perhaps some hot image burned into memory, rolling out of grandma’s bag made of bleach bottles cut into hexagons, all crocheted together with black, which served as her bag full

A star, a cross, rises, true map to up. 2-1, 1-2, watch the flames, our towers, trod God. What is black, becomes white, cut-off Egypt? God in Queen, makes a boy of him. 53rd is 8 stood up and not yet under-

I will go to Jerusalem, find fertility of the white flowered Ligustrum, pluck the Privet tree extolled by the poets for its peculiar whiteness. Christ is a vine, a cluster of all perfections divine, Engedi

I am in the part of the woods where the Satyer live, amongst the shadowed trees on the east side of Black Lake. “Hello old trees,” I greet the tall ones. You remember me? You remember us, here? I know

When I, a babe, first learned to speak, prattled words were protest. No, no, no and mine! Up, up, my arms held up, I smiled for myself. Still, some stood, in sky-high buildings, showered me in scorn, made

Rings of roses and laurel boughs, I send off to you and to you too, for the Love in that learning that’s now in the offing, to be free of nooses and ties, these are wreaths of blessings to crown ourselves

These were the names on two black, white and red vessels, ships I saw on the Columbia River this morning as I had my morning tread at Patriot Hall. Wisdom LINE has been anchored the past two days, but

From a tower window in Nottingham Castle, two men stared down into the moonlit courtyard. Nottingham, in its nuclear twin hulks, from regal to fat man’s stance a mansion to spread, no to horde, a place

After recording the dreams, I am just lying here awake and thinking of M whose braids are very long now. She is wearing them in four long ropes like the original dream in which these wrapped around C and

Finally, he gave the gift of not giving, at a time when giving is an expectation and that was good enough for a bookend. I’d spent years of my life in his labyrinth of tricks and turns, him throwing in

When I think of glowing ribbons, the felts of yesteryear, when you and I knew one another, the Capital Theater leaps, the swings, the spins, the taps of hard work and air, but where I want this to go is

I sent her a spoon, Cathedral windows, carved into cherry wood and they were the portal to son the almond corridor and in that week, she in The Hague sees a December blooming that is miracle with no other

Luckily, I think now, I grew up in a religious community in which the Sabbath day was a day in which one ought to regard with reverence, one day a week as special, one day a week in which one is encouraged

The big what if--would he have gone there anyway? I guess that’s something nobody will ever know, perhaps not even him as we so often tend to start believing the excuses, or better ways in which we paint

I shot these photographs last summer in Aberdeen, Washington which is not quite two hours from here and the place where Kurt Cobain of Nirvana grew up. A video interview if you'd like to meet the late

Here is one shot of the downtown gathering in front of the Liberty theater in which the mayor and many showed up to turn on the lights of Commercial Street, a small town celebration. The queer choir opened

Salisbury and the many missionaries before him knew that all of this-the powerhouse, the gardens, the growing fields, the barn, the hospital-were all part of...I have to admit I don’t know of anyone named

What will be our intentions in navigating the glitz and gleam? How do we make these our reminder and not become a huffing, puffing slave? What does all giving point to? I took a half piece of peppered

I spend this evening with writers, one famous? Maybe, more, all are published and two prolifically. I couldn’t tell you their names—well, not last sur’s. And all night they talk about the little money