Book Six Book Five Book Four Book Three Book Two Book One



When the boss is sleeping
everyone is sleeping
when the boss expresses truth
everyone knows it to be true
when the boss is calm
the wind on the water
dies down significantly

drunk on the irish sea

a bottl'a powers
a bottl'a paddys
jimmy is fucked on the floor
charlie charlie slammed his thumb in the door
the neighboring boat, across the way
time to time ducks behind the waves

Shallot Dust

shallots are a type of delicate onion
you can do a lot of things with em
i'm not sure of all the things
but I know that there a numerous things
chefs mention the shallot a fair bit
toss it in here toss it in that
chop it fucking thin you bastard
slivers not slabs:
little clouds of shallot dust

Mr Beaufort was a hermit

might be too tired to compose a poem
might be too lazy to type a rhyme
but can cook a pot of stew for the family
can wipe away the muck in the doorway
get the shoes and clean them up
find the food and dish it out
might be time to take the long hike
to the hermit who lives up on the ridge
howdy mr beaufort id say
do come down to the valley and stay
in the abode where we reside
my family and i
where i run about to make it all work
where i have no time to do much
not thanks he says
i prefer it up here in the cold
where i scoop up trout
from rowbottom lake
where i take my time with poems
and where i decide what to do
when i want to
its lonesome and cold i grant you that
its weary and hard at times
but the choice is mine
its up to my mind alone
so thanks for the kind offer he says
but no, i think ill stay up on the ridge awhile more


walk in through the in door
chance upon a fin
duck out through the trap door
chance upon a flapjack
mac rebenac says
he will set your hair on fire
i will go back home thanks



Six ducks

Six ducks
with beaks ajar
watching the smoke
drift in and settle
to the ground
the dewey field
sitting alone in the evening

La Rue du Pot o Beer

La Rue du Pot o Beer
sat upon the zendo floor
flashing of fine mustards
baking and aging of misou
a time will come
and right practice will right
and small mind
will die over and over

Mud Hound Water

Chinese lilies
come to life
emerging from muck
putting up leaves
then flowers —
flowery swamp birds
subtle swamp buds
little bits of colour
in mud hound water

Dry Talk

The way the folks
talk and talk and talk
big words, big talk
much talk, fast talk
considered talk
filtered talk
light shines in
and dries all the talk up

Six Scones

Six Scones
on the pantry shelf
six sailors
standing on the gantry
a wind upsets the sails
the scones slide off
the anchor drops
the tug casts off




Big Bog, Little Bog
Natural tides of Cranberry Juice
La Jus de Oregon
the juice of weird and musty backroad shacks
peeping through the trees
one mans swampy crop
another mans mediocre sauce

tomatoes loins

He who eats the lavender bud
and tastes tomatoes loins
saliva on the breast
of dying herbal sprigs

Boggy scotch

Boggy scotch in heavenly markets
sweet peat, such pitiful fruit.
Sweet pity in a dank swamp.
Swamp Scotch and a boozy heart.

Pots of Earth

Pots of Earth & pots of beef
or tender beans.
Made of clay or steel & copper.
Earthen pots of water.
Fired in the bosom of Japan.
Glazed with a Chinese Dove.
Now found
with tender bean.



Active chicken

Active chicken,
cool your scratching
and break
from chicken wire pacing.

La Rois du Pot au Fue

La Rois du Pot au Fue
back alley beef stew
& table wine, a table of mine
and a rainy day & a pot of beef
plunct upon mine table fine.

Bird nest at your feet

I’m working on the casts, talking shit up at nile creek
my wrist is getting involved,
should only be using the fore arm is what they tell me
otherwise things get confused
lines get crossed
and you wind up with a birds nest at your feet

throwing a nymph into the shadows

When I’m standing in a nice
sandy spot up the river
throwing a nymph into the shadows
I feel the jaw bone in my pocket
that Lola found last week
and forgot about

a lonesome sportsman

I am a slidin' in the old bag
a lonesome sportsman in a folky prison
a salal fence and very many moths

Jesus is an old boy

Jesus is an old boy and I wonder about him sometimes
like at christmas or when my buddy
lends me a bible that his dog ate a bit of

down by the dugout

Bought an old farm
with a haywire house
full of small problems
and issues

Got ten acres
of flat dry land
gently sloping
to the south

Might fence it in
might get stuck
in the mud
while trying

Might put up a sauna
on the edge of the dugout
or a little hut
to sit in



My Little Eye

My little eye gets bigger and bigger
with each beer that I steal from pa
and then drink

Pertoglyphs and Pterodactyls

Pertoglyphs and Pterodactyls
go whispering awhile
and I go flitting
through quennel lake
as summer dies out

low tide

Plenty of gulls
to crack the skulls
of tiny crabs
whose job it is
to waddle about
when the tide is out


A crazy place this is in the wet of winter Jainland
in the darkness of my hut hunting for hares
or the neighbours dogs, guarding the plains of Nestpatitas
and things in that vein.


Marmalade my, quintessential spread
who arms are always open on lonely mornings

Budget Soup

pull the cheap strings of cheap dreams
and poach the eggs of Chinese ducklings.
cheap beans in the simple soil
freshley picked by the cheap labour.
the hot sun sends cheapness into the roots
of cheap fruit which then is blended
into budget soup.


Sunshine slithers down my shins
towards my non-socks
to rest upon
my non-delusional hairy toe


Joyce and her husband
power walk goddamn laps
until suppertime

The pumpkin tree

The pumpkin tree
feels find today
buying groceries
from boulangerie

blues from the orient

Itay woke up from a bad dream, hard
he couldn’t get back to sleep
and the next day he had to work
but not until eleven o’clock in the morning

but at seven the construction would begin
and no one can sleep through that

he sat up late listening the neighbors
and Yusef Lateef’s eastern sounds

sleep came to Itay like finely ground coffee
dripping through the sheppard’s crook
of Lateef’s bassoon

milked along, watered by spit
from the boot through the bocal
to the double reeds then down his throat



Bush Bean

I picked the fruit of the bush bean,
bundled it into my shirt,
tossed the soft ones to the hens
and ran the bean marathon
with just enough for one

the young sweet greens
par-boiled in the fog
just barely peppered
yet edible and friendly


In the fog of manzanita I'm able to hide
and pretend Im the only one
and that the forest stretches on as does the sea

Work Week

In the work week my heart hurts
and I taste some painful things
metallic and dust
and sweat stings my eyes
and boredom hangs around
and wonder wanders through


I ate the lawn that gets too long
with my grizzly bear who hugged the ground
and spit smoke and dust while my eyes got red
near some motel where I pick up trash in the parking lot

Champagne Hill

Like a boat come loose of it’s moorings
or even a dock drifting in the cove at night

I wait for her on top of Champagne Hill
forecasting winter by fire


Cheese, Cheese,
all kinds of lactose
coming ultimately out of teets
to sit in sauce or water
or growl within
cold deep caves