No rain from our Western Region (I-Ching Hex. #9)

The bird within the mountain

cannot fly.

The voice within the statue

cannot speak.

His eyes are glass,

an arm to raise and lower stone

while water flows.

December wraps him

as the small clouds circle


for the perfect stranger

in his face. He must learn step by step

to scream.



from Jan. 10, 1982 – I used to throw the three coins with holes in them and do readings for others and myself.


In the sheer brown sparseness

of our documentary


we await the analytical


dogs and goldfish

continue on

as if they didn’t know

we’re counting on them

we count on them to tremble



I came across a bunch of poems I wrote in the 1980’s. This is one that caught my eye. I wrote on yellow paper with an old typewriter and didn’t date anything….