The Spring 2014 issue of Californios features some of my work, including the one poem that is probably closer to my heart than any other. Writing is always a profoundly odd experience, but this sonnet in particular transformed me at the volta. Go check it out, and enjoy all the other good suff there, too. Jesse Cone's poem on the annunciation is simply wonderful.

I'm a passionate believer in blogging, in throwing my best words out onto the wind and letting them fall where they may. Still, it's true that words need breathing space, and I think that my fibonacci poetry, in particular, is best experienced interspersed with other work. So I'm excited about this little set-that's-not-a-set, these little "wanderers" about my wanderings in California, wandering through other California poetry, short stories, photography, and essays.

The title 'Wanderers' refers to the Greek origins of the word 'planet.' All the 'wandering stars' were considered planetai. Originally, the sun and moon were considered part of this set, since they too 'wander' through the zodiac, but of course we see things very differently now...

Eventually, I would like to write a little star-shaped poem for each of the planetai. I have a rough draft for Mars, and just the vaguest of ideas for Jove and Saturn, but however the set eventually turns out, it will probably end with something like this little reflection on Sol:

Yet

still,

she moves,

satellites spinning

around her in epicycles

of her grand ellipse.

The milk-bright

way speeds

her

on.

Knowledge passes in and out of dreams,
a mirror dim, and frequently inverted.
Its objects are usually closer than they appear.
Love is the only absolute, and all
that's sure is only made sure by its power,
seen through the faith and hope that it inspires.
All of it passes away except for love.

Perhaps you are dreaming. What of it? Love is love
regardless of the state in which it finds you.
Though God is love, the senses still decieve,
but those who dream in love, He will surely wake,
and to those who wake in love He will give true dreams.

"Let us go then, you and I..."
--T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

The patient and ethereal evening spreads
itself upon the horizon's chilly table,
inhales the cloud, and prepares for oblivion.

Clad in surgical blue, the sky reaches out
for the instrumental stars and the moon's bright blade.

Later, morning will slowly emerge from the fog,
stumble to the mirror, and find herself
to be (as usual) somewhat rearranged.

Dusk

comes

when dust

encrusted

light descends, and bends

the clouds in loud fantastic hues,

cues for this proud day

to end, just

as all

days

must.