Monday, September 25, 2023

Poem & Hybrid Work in 2 Alaskan Journals: Cirque & Permafrost

There’s currently new work

(a poem and some hybrid work)

in two Alaskan Journals.


Anchorage, home of Cirque

A poem from the manuscript

The Next World

is in the current issue of


Volume 13,  No. 1


The poem centers around something that I’ve been trying to write about for decades and can’t seem to get quite right: Being swarmed by bees when I was five. I’ve written it as a short essay, I’ve written it as a prose-poem, but I always felt that something was missing.


Though I think there’s still something missing to this new attempt, it’s getting closer:


Bees, Faeries, Souls of the Dead, Maitake Mushrooms:

how the world was made


When I was five I was swarmed by bees; a blanket of bee bodies

covered my head, torso; bee bodies searched up my nose, circled


the roof of my mouth, spoke to each other inside my ears. I am

perpetually caught between the terror of anticipating a thousand


stings and relief from feeling such closeness, the weight of all

those bodies who had chosen me, chosen to touch me, cover me,


in a way that human beings, up to that time, had not. I still feel

the brush of wings and leg-tines against my skin on the edge  




The rest of the poem can be found  

here (pg 84).



Art by Sage Cruser

The two hybrid works in 


Issue 44.1,

are from the original manuscript of

Another Apocalypse.


The manuscript started out as a strange little prose-poem work, but over the last two years has morphed into something I can probably call “fiction.” Sure, let's call it fiction. There’s an actual story now and it looks very different from the original.



Another Apocalypse, Take 22

The new angels arrived yesterday. They arrived in clouds of phthalates-boiled dust. The old phone wires screamed their praise. Everything bowed down to the sound. I woke from a dream of bats circling flare-stacks on a vast plain, then kneeled beside the bed, whispered the secret and holy names of fear…


The rest of the original works can be found

here (Another Apocalypse, Take 22)


Northern Lights in Fairbanks (home of Permafrost)

Monday, September 18, 2023

New poems in Flyway: Journal of Writing & Environment


There are two poems from the new manuscript,

The Next World,

in the latest issue of

Flyway: Journal of Writing & Environment




Flyway publishes work that explores

the intersection of human experience

and the environment.


I am writing this on Sunday, September 17th, 2023,

during the time when thousands of climate activists

are marching in NYC and around the world

to end the use of fossil fuels.  

(March to End Fossil Fuels)


The first poem is about a flood that was labeled “a five-hundred-year flood” back in '93, when it overran the city of Des Moines, Iowa. The city's waterworks were inundated and there was no water in the taps available for almost the entire city for about six weeks. 


Military helicopters constantly floating away into a roil of muddy water... 

What was “every five hundred years” back then has become the new normal. 

New York State

I tried to write a poem about that flood with the idea of memory as prophesy for what was to come, what has now arrived…


Rain, The Ceaseless Sea, The Water Works Drowned & Prophesy: how the world was made


Ever since the flood, the long Cassandra scream.

Balls of water for nine months, smashing onto


concrete, roofs, battering leaves, then water

suddenly everywhere lapped up to the highway’s


shoulder as we drove pell-mell into the city

before the water cut us off from home. Sea north,


south, soy and corn waving beneath water like

kelp. Ever since the flood, Cassandra pleading,


this is coming, this is coming soon everywhere…


The rest of the poem can be found in Flyway here.



The second poem is the last poem written in the manuscript, back in April, after the last snow here in Eugene, when a murder of crows arrived back in the neighborhood – their calls, their black wings, their black beaks, their piercing eyes – and connected everything together; a polyphony of sounds, smells, colors, questions…



What is Crow (Polyphony)


Crows fill the bare maples, between baroque trills and

iron-crust-against-plaster croaks, they dip their heads,

swipe beaks, black to cold branch: What is wood? Wood


was one of the solutions soil came up with when it was

asked to invent the sky. And what is sky? The gravity

source that pulled black wings out of crow bodies, that


now whirl and scatter and land on the rehab lawn across

the street…


The rest of the poem can be found here.

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