Current Transmissions:



We could live in maybes.

Standing in the woods at night, an unspecified

age and way, but always the past.

Speaking aloud into the darkness, the trees

somehow made of sounds, implied.

The courage to speak aloud there in the woods

in the darkness alone, real words spoken

out loud, meant to be heard.

We could live in the future.

Sitting at the desk, on the chair, this

furniture all gathered and handmade from the past.

Typing onto the plastic, the smooth lines, the thin

machine. Typing into the new space, electronic

and layered and fictional. Early gray morning in winter

on the laptop computer, tired but too amazed

to let it pass without record.

We could live in each other.

The sense, the way it starts a shining

in my stomach, the barest thought of you and the

idea, the possibility, as strange and as fleeting

as words in the woods and visions of the future,

that when our eyes met we gave each other something,

even if only a shining and words to make

poems from.