The Ammonite

Crushed by a drop of success
Everything is going fine
I am happy in excess
I do mine

Is this how advance feels
Happiness for oneself alone
Shared only to give the appearance of sharing
Still trapped and dark

Each alone to do their work
For the betterment of the world
And nothing turning out how it ought to
My mistakes are most me, my successes dust

Look at this and cry
You are floundering once more
The base has gone out beneath you,
You’re spiraling

Nothing complete, stuck inside
No time for a wife
No time for friends
Waste of youth

Expressing yourself
Scribbling clever bullshit
Each and every
Each and every day

Listen to the wind through the trees outside
Don’t you think this is a ruined world
It doesn’t snow
No one says anything

And I keep my mouth shut
To work on my career
Sand in the desert
I am a ruin of a world

Nothing will change it
And nothing is good
It is the backdrop as they are fond of saying
And I guess I really am here alone

Cheers I’ll never see you
Let it all go again

All this time trying to say we live in a world
Take yourself as a model
But you are hard on yourself
And that’s unreliable


The eyes blue and upthrust into the glare of the camera and the lips joined in a simper. The butterfly of his tie perched below the collars, fluttering towards the part in his hair. The dark jacket flowing into the dark trousers, illumined on each upper leg; and the hands aglow: the right curled on his knee and the fingers of the left clenching his cap, the bill to the ground, in between his spread legs and the creases of shine on each leather shoe. To return to the eyes, pressed shining, glassy and gay with threads of joy and determination entwined.

Two Mushrooms on January 4, 2019

Schizophyllum commune

Found: On a log of oak, fused in shelves

Fruiting Body: 1.5cm, snow, fuzzy, small, gray at the margin (inrolled); flesh thin but very tough

Gills: white, protracted, well spaced, streaming to the tiny knob of the base

Taste: none, but chewy

-crush between your fingers
-stroke the parahairy cap
-wet then stroke the cap

Stereum striatum

Found: whirling around a branch

Fruiting body: 3cm; fan-shaped, spatula-shaped, heartshaped; creamy silky bands pushing in zones to hard copper-gold bands; flesh exquisitely thin and tough, margin gold

Underbody: creamy-buff, hard, soft, somewhat zoned


Changing Dreams

Hell is inescapable bliss today: I watered the ox, I fell around, clutching three instants of grappa. Oh what will it do, I’d spill the wine over the flesh of a white goat for you.

Sometimes I think I am gay when I see rainbows, burls, or the Maker piling hay. Each sharp grain pushes through the world a thousand times.

The vandals are coming with their axe, to flay me at the corner of Larkspur and Mark. To drag me through the streets, to the park, where they’ve stretched out their big rollers.

Purgatory, heaven-redeeming bliss. I will walk on hot coals through the mist. The bees and brambles sting the earth is freezing cold. I’ll walk through the ocean, though it stings my soul.

Upon the way is a Pool of Time. In it I see my name, floating on a lily pad. Open the hours, open your heart, I fell into the water with a start.

To the gates, all inset with rubies. Emeralds and lovelocks. Plus mirrors that refract you from every angle, style, and phase. I am with a hundred arms in an ormolu haze.

The ox leads the way through the cloudbanks to the God of All. Lounging on a couch made out of curious metal. Picking his fingers with a harp, stroking the calico cat with the warp. On the ropes of time an ocean lays, plucking