the clicker

some things come to
“naturally” in child
hood that lost like

get smothered tracked
on with accumulated
years of office pop

cubicle sound proof
ing interspersed w/
whispered curses company

coffee cups then one day
finally have alone time w/
“your” smothered thoughts

colors tamped down a few
sense of rhythm off kil
ter search for a little

lights are left inside
finds you are slid into
the reciprocity of “likes”

easiest way to survive
be watcher, commenter
supporter, clicker of ads

fund me set to default this
lead cloud info something
prior to this in colors

the line

the report of today’s
ire in pre election mode
was antecedent to
lunch of raw fatty
salmon in the Poke

House stuffed with
roe & that’s enough
of that but lacking
ores and a boat is how

one feels today sore
loss of wild imagined
waters there to wait
out the end of this


is just too pathetic
as well as the sour
sop (news) spoon fed
in small bytes with

kittens and puppies
all mangey we con-
gratulate our selves
for to save us is


or selvedge the line
the margin of error
the frayed ends


I keep wanting to design a small book for the sake of designing a small book. A chapbook or something. Something I’ve always wanted to do, since high school, when I DID design a small book (since lost).

So yeah a chapbook why the hell not. But not totally about the poems because I want this to be a visual object, too. And yet I don’t want it to be about being “handmade,” because sometimes I think those are just too “precious” in a way that bothers me. No, I’d like to design a book where the art has about the same weight as the poems, and they are integrated.

Oh I forgot that I designed a small book in junior high using the covers of an old book, and typing on pages that I glued in between the covers. I still have it, but it’s kind of a mess, that one. Not as much fun as the one I made later in high school.

The Barkada


my hay(na)ku

chops, preparing myself



a round

of hay(na)ku reading



and selection

with Vince and



Karri at

X-Press(ed) (up north)



at the

helm of the



barkada, we

few, we lucky . . .



navigating the

sea of prolixity



words at

hand, ready swords



doves, or

drink, as needed

“Ancient” Me

Stumbled across my “old” Okir blog; well, first I stumbled across Adam Fieled’s As Is Compendium, which led me to my old Okir blog circa 2004-2006 or so. Gotta say, I have a lot of nostalgic and mixed feelings about that time. I was writing a lot — a lot more than now. So I’m thinking about the circumstances that gave me momentum to write back then, and what’s happening now. I sounded pretty upbeat most of the time back then, but I was going through a lot. Deaths in my family. End of a marriage. So much. Today, my writing has slowed down (but hasn’t stopped), and I’m giving myself a more private space in which to write. And my interest in painting and visual arts has increased. There’s a certain stability in my life now. Lots of love and support. I’m more involved in community work. My creative life is more private these days, more paced, or maybe just moving slower, as I get older.

Writing, Painting

Glad to hear that several of my poems will be in the next issue of Marsh Hawk Review in September. Yes, I continue to write. But I also continue to paint. Since fire and smoke have been more or less a constant for the last couple months in Monterey, I’m working on a Fire Season series of 20 x 20″ paintings.  I’ve actually gotten sort of used to the smoke and gray or hazy skies. Everyday I hope for some real sunshine, and occasionally it actually happens. But not today . . .

Fire Season - Sobranes 2016

“Sobranes 2016.” Acrylics on canvas, 20 x 20 inches.