Water, Liquid. So fluid!

Water, Liquid. So fluid!

Smiling, How’s that for circular logic!.

Water gathers. Especially the ocean. Such a presence.

Air? Nothing like it. Not even there most of the time. Don’t even notice it.

The ground? Just a surface, unmoving. We stand on it. Continue reading


Featured Writer at Writer’s Voice Café

Flyer for May 2011 Writer's Voice Cafe--DiasWednesday, May 11 at 7:00 pm upstairs at Napi’s I’ll be reading from Shoal Hope, including the chapter, “…Peter” that will be included in the Dark Mountain II anthology due to be published in Britain June 17.

Come early and let’s have dinner at Napi’s then head upstairs for the Writer’s Voice Café. PTV will be taping my reading to air and stream on their site.

Remember there’s an open mic following. Bring something to share with the group!

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Oh! Kurt Vonnegut, I love you; but…

Oh, Kurt Vonnegut,
I love you; but

the real Billy Pilgrims

didn’t end up in
a fantasy.

They’re still in their
cellar in Dresden,

– in personal extremis –

no one’s tragedy
outweighs the rest.

They came back looking
for fantasy to take them away;

warm tits, a warm bed

a quiet house,
no more horror.

These were simple
requests made Utopian

by what they never left behind

they tried to,
they wished for it.

There was liquor
there was shiny, there was clean

test tube magic, fingertip control

Except at night
it never went away.

The fantasy never came
its time has come and gone

The real Billy Pilgrims wait

the ones not already dead.

Somewhere behind
in the secrets they tried to hide from

they know more of where things stand

than the rest of us
still waiting for the fantasy to take us away.


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Oh, My Codfish!

No, nothing is more beautiful than my codfish.
Big and so handy, squirming on my board.

With your belly full, like a pregnant one.
Your skin golden, covered in scales of silver.

Fins smooth, spines sharp.
Eyes round, big, clear, tired.

Tail round, like my hand, big.
Gills red, full of blood, strong.

So cold, but full of beauty.
I spend more time with you than with my wife.

You open to my knife, full of roe, eggs, so pink.
The membranes of your belly shine like mother-of-pearl.

When I finish with you, there’s another, then another after.
Your smell, clean, deep, in my nose all the time.

I feel your weight on my arms at night when I sleep.
Oh, there is nothing more beautiful than my codfish, so marvelous.

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Ai, O Meu Bacalhau!

Não á nada mais belo do que o meu bacalhau.
Grande y tão jeitoso, gemer na minha tábua.

Com tua barriga cheia, como uma grávida.
A pele dourada, coberta em escalas de prata.

As barbatanas macias, as espinhas afiadas.
Os olhos redondos, grandes, límpidos, cansados.

O rabo redondo, como a minha mão, grande.
As guelras vermelhas, cheias de sangue, forte.

Tão fria, mas cheia de beleza.
Passo mais tempo contigo do que com a minha esposa.

Abra-te a minha faca, cheia de ovas cor de rosa.
As peles da tua barriga lustrosas como madrepérola.

Cuandu acabo contigo, a mais outra, y outra atras de ela.
Seu cheiro, limpo, fundo, no meu nariz a toda hora.

Cinto o teu peso nos meus braços a noite, quando durmo.
Ai! Não a nada, mais belo do que o meu bacalhau, tão maravilhoso.

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