Dogslandia

Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Sunday, January 24, 2021

Changes

 Things disappeared from Amazon, and things will reappear again in a few weeks. I'm revisiting some of the things I've placed there, myself, in the past, and just updating and cleaning and improving what I can while the wind is high and the storms are blowing outside my window. It doesn't impact any of the major titles, but the ones I've done, myself, have all disappeared to be reappeared later, after I clear out the dust and blow off the old formatting. I've had some issues working with Amazon in the past, and these continue, and I will work through them all. I'm hoping to find a solution that works even better, and I hope it works.

I expect there are many broken links floating around the internet, now, and I will try to fix them when it is time for them to be fixed. In the mean time, go to www.vernacularbooks.com and see what else I'm up to, find good things, and share good things.

Peace.

Tuesday, January 12, 2021

Sonnet #327

Lazy as raccoons, the moon and stars extend

Into twilight’s curtain, and meander

In their nightly dance indifferent to the band there

Down below, the night birds and in toads, the end

Of all days could happen, and the moon ignores

All that is so small among the crowd of groundlings

Her dance is complex and beautiful and resounding

In revolving and positioning and restore

Pay no mind while dancing to the audience

Below, just dance slow and sweetly, languorous

Night — let the gentle threshold of the dalliance

Of this space between our fingers, arduous,

Ignore all of us, forever, and dance fair moon

When we stand upon your face, we swoon.

unsonneting

The feather tips of desert grasses paint

the misty morning shades of green and brown

against the fog and sweeping winds, the sounds

Of autumn come at last to this dry saint

A shrine inside the hollow of a tree

Where a candle of the lord faints


Take a long breath of this damp autumn

Full up with wind that has blown across the world

To the poles and back and back again

Inside the lungs of elephants and crickets

Born of the trees that drift to sleep or stuck

From passing comets where the gravity captured bits of burning tail

We breathe the centuries, we breathe the air of saints and kings

We breath and share this wind, this drizzle

That gathered moisture from our lungs and grasses until it fell upon the candles

Swelled in gusts and damp leaves to blow them out

The feathered tips of desert grasses dance for us

Against the grey cloud curtains

Blow out your candles, and grant some small applause

Monday, November 16, 2020

Sonnet #326

 I question the evolution of emotion

How Darwin's foolish claim was shouted down
By men who felt by God, by faith, what's shown
Who came to their belief by the sum
of the very process Darwin showed them
So, is it better for us to follow where we are led
Or to snip the tethers of the dead
examine rocks and bones, pretend
We know what we're doing with all of this --
But science emerges out of evolution, too
There is no destination to the world in bliss,
There is no safe harbor, no home, just truth
The rocks beneath our feet scrape and shape our shoes
And we scrape the rocks slowly with heels and toes

Sunday, October 11, 2020

Sonnet #325

 I found the lamp; the genie came and granted

The three wishes, and I thought about my son

Who is not yet three, and what could be won

By one so young: to have his moment supplanted

With whatever whim he has, a tv show perhaps,

A giant garbage truck that changes colors on command

He pretends to cook ravioli so he’ll have that on demand

And in thirty years, he would tumble through his mishaps

And ache at all the pain he brought upon himself

By spending all his power on the whims of youth -

I have the lamp; The universe is mine, what else?

Control of others? A power to change the truth?

Just toys and fancy. Hold mine unspent, three prayers

I am too young, we are all too young, to wish into the air.

Friday, October 9, 2020

Sonnet #324

We call the hard ones strong but they 
Are not. The jagged cliffs are shaped by sea
The wind blows down all the mighty trees 
And we sit upon the beach and sea spray
Tickles our noses where the wind catches
The drops, and we bask in that cool water
And swim among the reefs, fish scatter
And they are so small, so delicate, patches
Of light glistening and alive and so small
And all our strength all our hardness breaks
Upon the beach, where tiny sand’s pull
Gently holds us up and swallows us, takes
As much as it carries of our skin cells,
The tiniest worms devour the mightiest who make

Friday, September 11, 2020

Sonnet#323

No sonnet sits upon this place to make

a little sense from senselessness, no
poem dances out the poison, shimmy shake
The Tarantella is not needed her, so

too the military march, there is no poem

standing here, upon this moving mark
And so abandons pages, forgiveness, and pain
And carry all the things I might have heark-
ened in my brain, I let it all remain

I shattered up the rhyme scheme because no poem

is here, just scattering denials and words
that scatter into more words and a bit absurd
How we just line things up and say the words
And pretend that you can hear me speaking the absurd

Thursday, September 10, 2020

Sonnet #326

From all the darkness that I gather

All the moonlight reflected, all the stars
I find the center of the warm dark, the bars
of the cage of the world of me, were 
I in sun, I cannot think for long, 
There's too much light, too much beauty
I have too much to live, too much duty
To the living world, but the dark song
lingers in my chest, the knowing what comes
For if it can be taken from me, it is not
me. If I could lose a hand and still be some-
one, then my hand is not me. If I could stop
My heart and pull it out and put another one
And I remain, eternal self, let all flesh drop

Saturday, September 5, 2020

Sonnet #325

 Nothing prepares us for a restless night

We expect — we always expect — to dream

Expect to wake refreshed and stretch the light

But when the air is still and calm and we seem

Unable to breathe inside of it, unable to settle

It always comes as such a surprise, a gift of time

In darkness, a gift where we are left to wrestle

Out the ransoms of the daylight, scrape the slime

Off our psyche, read a book, go for walks, be still

Here is the restless hour, the long night, ticking clocks

Alone in this limping, humid storm-swept swell

To think and think and think until the mind is locked

And the windows finally shut, and night guests ramble

Until their voices stop, after the party, and words untangle

Tuesday, August 25, 2020

Sonnet #324

 For love, I trim my beard outside,

So little hairs don’t clog and mess the sink

I use the sliding glass as mirror where I think

The neighbors cannot see me, as I hide

Without a shirt, electric clippers whine and chew

And soon my beard is through, this bits of me

Tumble all about the deck, and they blow free

Where I know the birds and mice will gather through

And make their nests in my lost beard, I’ve seen them

Tossed them from an old galosh I forgot in the porch

Swept the empty nests away from under pots and when

I see the sparrows in the field and know how we touched

The field mice in the cinderblocks bravely

Stealing in my garden, we are connected, all of us

To I who plant and mow and shave and live and rust

Monday, August 17, 2020

Sonnet #322

All the places I have slept are always here

In the Dreamtime, I can feel the ache of camping

And the unsettled damp of motel mattresses where

I could not quite escape the musk, also stamping

down the exposed springs of dormitory beds

my body remembers every couch and hospital

Amy body, in the Dreamtime, knows when instead

Of waking from my dreams, I stay in them all

So ask me how my back aches and my knees groan

And I will say that when I sleep all sleep remembers

The lost lovers, whose beds became so cold, the stones

Beneath my back when I napped in a park, December

Comes, and my dreaming power grows, every memory

Of mattresses stacks upon the pea of self, I wake from every

Sunday, August 9, 2020

Sonnet #321

Soon every mountain will become a carved thing

A head or pressing heroes or marching men with flags

Every face of rock is just a canvas, ready to ring

the greatness of the dead forever out of rocky slag;

Since every stone will be carved to be memorials,

naturally, the birds and insects will evolve --

they dance already on the statues in arboreal

parks, and will someday specialize where stone dissolves

into faces, and every nostril is a nest, and every strong chin

overhangs a shadow, shelters stone birds and insects

these future natives of a country all built of memory, 

will erode it, in time, where excessive breeding breeds neglect;

The storms will come, and earthquakes, too, and scatter

all these great men dead in echoless shatters

Wednesday, August 5, 2020

Sonnet #320

Dog barking in the night, I know this song

But I never sing along, because I think
Of Cinderella on her throne, queen of drink
Not pretty, now, and the birds and mice along
The walls are more loyal than the servants
That resent how she came from them and they
Will never be like her, the dust of cinder that they
Leave inside her napkins and pillowcases and ants
Allowed to crawl among the crumbs left on dresses
She swears they are doing it on purpose, but they 
Swear it is just the mice and bird caresses
For her whole life she lies awake at night, pray
To keep this place in life won suddenly say nothing
Hold all the night inside your chest, keep breathing.


Tuesday, August 4, 2020

Sonnet #319

The squirrel thirsts enough to chew upon

The thickest pomegranate rinds, to drink
The tartest, not yet sweet, the hardest sink
Of teeth gets but a drop, and throw them down
After just a few swift chews, and in these ruins
Broken ornaments and desiccation of the flesh
I harvest losses off the ground, and press
The fruit, or shake it, just to see what drew in
Where the skin was broken, all those jewels
My poor pink quartz, my gemstones of mourning
All that glittering, and that squirrel, desperate fool
Will be trapped in this place a season, hoarding
All the treasures of this fence-line, the cool
Days come; to eat the pomegranate seeds, in this burning