Last Night



Last night,

coming home from a friend’s little cabin in the woods,

moon bigger than full,

low and wide over the road to Pepin,

no other cars in sight,


I felt the full sirens’ call,

I heard the Enchantress’ subtle song,

deer in the weeds off the shoulder,

just waiting to dive in front of my truck

and give their souls to God and Gods

and whatever fairies surrounded us.


Next full moon on the solstice is in 2094 they say.

I’ll be 146 then.

Well, 145,

I won’t turn 146 til well over a month later.


I dream about it now.

The softness is compelling.

I have grown larger than the lake I live beside:


Once again, there are moths in my ears, dancing away in the light.

Once again , there are songs unraveling, right there at the beginning of the dream.


Solstice seems to be the exact height of silence.

It seems to have wandered off to Norway and a quiet home

on Sognefjord

where we all spent our early days.


I am a poet now.

I am a poetess.

One of my eyes moves to the side of my head, like a fish.

Turkey vultures sit on the jetty nearby,

staring at me, maybe 10 of them.

The breeze is clean and new,

and wanders in from over past Lake City.


I have not come this far to stop now.

Pain will not hold me back.

I refuse to disappear into the internet,

into wine and beer,

into sex.

I refuse to take lightly my proximity to the passing world,

to the next world,

to the world we are waiting for.


The lilacs have bloomed and fallen back asleep.

My hammock sits empty in the yard.

For once, I will turn my chair around and face the street,

wave to allthat pass by,

and mumble,

delicately to myself,

about angels and dragonflies

and the short sweet smell of sunset.

Federico Garcia Lorca -

“Hay muy pocos ángeles que canten,

Hay muy pocos perros que ladren,

Mil violines caben en la palma mi mano.   


There are very few angels that sing,

There are very few dogs that bark, 

A thousand violins fit in the palm of my hand.”


Why Painting is Hard


The first thing I remembered were the birds,

a wall of grackles screaming from somewhere

out beyond my ears.

Then it was all the dogs

and the slow moving whine

of trains that were falling back asleep.


See, I’d forgotten to weep.

I’d forgotten to make wallpaper out of gourds

and vests out of family newspapers.

The jonquils were burning

and all I saw

was grass turning

the color of money.


Tommorrow, I want you to be my guest.

I want rocks to make hammocks out of trees.

I want tires to find time for wine at breakfast.


Please, take my heart,

make it the size of Yankee stadium during the ‘59 Series.

Carry it’s mail

like the wind carries our thoughts to North Dakota.


O.K., here’s my list:


I want grandchildren that fly.

I want houses that sing great big songs (like Woody Guthrie did).

I want streets that dance til 5 a.m.,

angry, sweating, sexy.

I want to wander through your dreams.


dougie padilla