three sixty five

three six­ty five
is a project in which I will explore the essence of the mod­ern haiku for an entire year. My aim is to decon­struct and ana­lyze the haiku in order to fur­ther under­stand the nature of min­i­mal­ism in poet­ry. I will write a haiku a day while exper­i­ment­ing with struc­ture and lim­i­ta­tion. Where I have writ­ten more tra­di­tion­al forms of [Eng­lish] haiku in the past using the 5–7-5 syl­la­ble struc­ture, I will no longer lim­it myself to this con­straint. Instead, I plan on invent­ing new con­straints or break­ing free of them to find new mod­es of expres­sion and inter­pre­ta­tion. This page will act as a dig­i­tal archive of my efforts.

365 [2017.03.04]

from the mouth of the cathe­dral a cob­bled stream mean­ders through the val­ley sky­ward 

364 [2017.03.03]

a gen­tle stream of thoughts as I sit again­st the old peach stones of baro­que cathe­dral hid­ing from the sun

363 [2017.03.02]

skeins of wool dyed cochineal crim­son sway in the soft wind as they dry in the sun

362 [2017.03.01]

auburn mem­o­ries a stat­ue a foun­tain a girl with a note­book

361 [2017.02.28]

dust con­gre­gat­ing beneath the couch draw­ing a cir­cum­fer­ence of unclean­ly protest

360 [2017.02.27]

a sad blue house kneel­ing into the side­walk

359 [2017.02.26]

pur­ple con­fet­ti from the old jacaran­da tree

358 [2017.02.25]

a bro­ken mir­ror on the road reflect­ing awk­ward frag­ments of morn­ing sky

357 [2017.02.24]

white petals drift down the street like tiny oax­a­can snowflakes

356 [2017.02.23]

soft arti­fice the city vibrates in abstrac­tion

355 [2017.02.22]

ten short poems tucked in a black note­book

354 [2017.02.21]

rain­less days gray stones reveal them­selves to be an old cathe­dral in the mid­dle of a lake

353 [2017.02.20]

los días se entre­lazan como los hilo de una tapete

351 [2017.02.18]

a vari­ety of sen­tences to describe the heat of the sun

350 [2017.02.17]

sequin starlight fills the dark val­ley

349 [2017.02.16]

organ pipes crawl­ing up the wall like brassy vines

348 [2017.02.15]

neapoli­tan ice cream sun­rise

347 [2017.02.14]

sun breach­ing a white dress sketch­ing a shad­owy fig­ure

346 [2017.02.13]

a blue volk­swag­on bug hug­ging its face around a tree

345 [2017.02.12]

mole dark as a night­time sky sease­me seeds make famil­iar con­stel­la­tions

344 [2017.02.11]

untrans­lat­able ges­tures like secret codes on the street

343 [2017.02.10]

dusty-mouthed stu­dents smok­ing on the cor­ner

342 [2017.02.09]

looms clat­ter weav­ing life into the moun­tain­side town

341 [2017.02.08]

val­ley vil­lage poised around a dry well

340 [2017.02.07]

the sun is creep­ing along the floor like a sneaky lit­tle cat

339 [2017.02.06]

a young wom­an with crys­talline legs steps soft­ly off the curb

338 [2017.02.05]

an itchy feel­ing when you walk through an invis­i­ble web

337 [2017.02.04]

roots swim­ming just below the sur­face

336 [2017.02.03]

an (ill)egal wom­an with a human face slip­ping silent­ly across the bor­der her lips chapped by the sun

335 [2017.02.02]

wind beneath the door as if the streets were breath­ing

334 [2017.02.01]

shad­ows mak­ing shapes on an oth­er­wise tired white wall

333 [2017.01.31]

bare bones pro­trud­ing from the tourist’s shorts

332 [2017.01.30]

fleet­ing moment or was that fleecing wait no still poor

331 [2017.01.29]

grandfather’s hands fold­ed like del­i­cate paper

330 [2017.01.28]

dry lips like kiss­ing sand

329 [2017.01.27]

a thou­sand and one and i decid­ed to lose count

328 [2017.01.26]

under a thick wool blan­ket a cave of shiv­ers 

327 [2017.01.25]

hors­es frozen in a field as if in a paint­ing

326 [2017.01.24]

domes­ti­cat­ed pain soft but con­stant

325 [2017.01.23]

prac­tice makes per­fect except when it doesn’t

324 [2017.01.22]

the moun­tains creep silent­ly into the val­ley at night

323 [2017.01.21]

a young boy dis­turbs the flat face of the pond with his curi­ous hands

322 [2017.01.20]

three tall skin­ny palms sway in unison as the brass band plays

321 [2017.01.19]

a small sure­foot­ed man walks down the street with ten bird­cages strapped to his back stacked a sto­ry high 

a sin­gle green feath­er catch­es the wind and drifts away

320 [2017.01.18]

a naked sky the city seems to rise into

319 [2017.01.17]

a day where mock­ery seems to be hung around my neck like some sort of orna­ment

318 [2017.01.16]

tiny lit­tle paws appear from beneath the cur­tains

317 [2017.01.15]

a wood­en guadalu­pe wrapped in a cerulean blue cloak care­ful­ly observes me tend­ing to the kitchen

316 [2017.01.14]

silence only after the clam­or of cop­per-blue bells and the sour smell of fire­works

315 [2017.01.13]

what remains is a large wood­en door decid­ing what is pri­vate and what is pub­lic

314 [2017.01.12]

pome­gran­ates like lit­tle hearts split­ting open on the tree and bleed­ing red onto the cement below

313 [2017.01.11]

in the win­ter when the ground looks thirsty we await the cicada’s sound

312 [2017.01.10]

cracked plas­ter reveal­ing adobe bones

311 [2017.01.09]

two dogs car­pet­ing the side­walk black and brown in the after­noon sun

310 [2017.01.08]

a sin­gle house on the hill­side or a speck of dust on my lens

309 [2017.01.07]

tiny raised paws as if to catch the sun

308 [2017.01.06]

a long pause and silence moments before i yawn

307 [2017.01.05]

no water for months and we are mov­ing human cac­ti

306 [2017.01.04]

where the river meets the sea on the embank­ment men with square nets

305 [2017.01.03]

chil­dren play­ing foot­ball with an orange the smell of cit­rus fills the air

304 [2017.01.02]

a cloud float­ing above the moun­tains as if ready to spill down its face

303 [2017.01.01]

paper boat sets sail only to sink moments lat­er

302 [2016.12.31]

that way that cold is trans­ferred from the hand to oth­er bits of flesh

301 [2016.12.30]

a paint chipped wall giv­ing mean­ing to the pho­tos dec­o­rat­ing it

300 [2016.12.29]

a paint chipped wall giv­ing mean­ing to the pho­tos dec­o­rat­ing it

299 [2016.12.28]

the soft glow of eggs in a cast iron pan

298 [2016.12.27]

a tobo­la that sort of pick­les the mouth

297 [2016.12.26]

wise brown eyes gan­der peep­ing through a heavy blue scarf

296 [2016.12.25]

hands in the shape of eggs

295 [2016.12.24]

an ego­tis­ti­cal book that won’t fit on my shelf

294 [2016.12.23]

water froth­ing at the mouth as it swal­lows a woman’s bikini top

293 [2016.12.22]

taper­ing tree seems to be off bal­ance

292 [2016.12.21]

man in beach­wear click­ing his san­dals down the city street

291 [2016.12.20]

bush­es shiv­er­ing on the road­side

290 [2016.12.19]

fear filled bird trav­el­ing by high­way

289 [2016.12.18]

the cos­mos of the fishermen’s lights bob­bing in the dark­ness

288 [2016.12.17]

wind always comes from some­where in the past

287 [2016.12.16]

a wom­an doing her laun­dry in the river on the spine of rock

286 [2016.12.15]

corn grow­ing in the hue of sad­ness

285 [2016.12.14]

some­times the cur­tains move as if they were alive

284 [2016.12.13]

a pre­car­i­ous wood­en lad­der leans again­st a bright yel­low wall

283 [2016.12.12]

a teabag bleed­ing on a white plate

282 [2016.12.11]

two wom­en speak­ing in zapotec point­ing at me when one laughs rhyth­mi­cal­ly but not taunt­ing­ly 

281 [2016.12.10]

tall white wall with the shad­ow of a tree seem­ing­ly burnt into it

280 [2016.12.09]

gray­ing men in old chairs read­ing black and white print the sound of licked thumbs turn­ing pages

279 [2016.12.08]

dusty brown hill­side lit­tered with hous­es and plas­tic refuse

278 [2016.12.07]

long blue fish piled in a wheel­bar­row carv­ing through the crowds of the mar­ket

277 [2016.12.06]

grains of sand flow ever so slow­ly down the dry riverbed


276 [2016.12.05]

the mag­ic of a win­dow can­not be expressed in prose

275 [2016.12.04]

silence is the sonorous nature of still­ness

274 [2016.12.03]

a thou­sand seeds vibrat­ing beneath the ground

273 [2016.12.02]

an ephemer­al and del­i­cate desert flow­er is far more pre­cious than any dia­mond

272 [2016.12.01]

a cab dri­ver with a bluesman’s voice col­lages sto­ries of depor­ta­tion

271 [2016.11.30]

broth­er col­lects pock­et change and bits of lint while sis­ter sleeps on moth­ers black skirt

270 [2016.11.29]

a man rush­ing through the street in a black suit even though it is too hot

269 [2016.11.28]

fresh linen rolled out across the bed like fresh pas­try on a bak­ers bench

268 [2016.11.27]

a thou­sand slim gold­en fin­gers all of which belong to glenn gould

267 [2016.11.26]

the hori­zon meets the sky as if they were stitched togeth­er some­how with the long strings of the sun

267 [2016.11.26]

hum­ble mud home tiny beaks peak­ing out

266 [2016.11.25]

those tiny lit­tle ges­tures her nos­trils make 

265 [2016.11.23]

build­ings of stone seem­ing­ly made from the sky down

264 [2016.11.22]

tiny lit­tle words almost like a shhh

263 [2016.11.21]

fish­er­men whirling their lines in the air wait­ing for the per­fect moment to cast

262 [2016.11.20]

a tiny red her­mit crab peeks at me from beneath his shell as if he were tip­ping his hat

261 [2016.11.19]

long saline liq­uid struc­tures fold­ing in on them­selves with a crash

260 [2016.11.18]

dark beau­ti­ful strong arms help to bal­ance a yel­low bas­ket atop a head of grey hair

259 [2016.11.17]

black seeds crack­ling on the face of a comal

258 [2016.11.16]

the church spire stretched itself way-way up

257 [2016.11.15]

catch­ing water in a geo­de

256 [2016.11.14]

i fold myself into the day like sum­mer fresh laun­dry into an old dusty draw­er

255 [2016.11.13]

a vacant nest hold­ing the remains of sev­er­al blue eggs in its tiny palm

254 [2016.11.12]

a tiny snake coiled up mak­ing a ball swept sporti­ly out the back door

253 [2016.11.11]

an old tree kneels down by the river as if to cleanse its hands

252 [2016.11.10]

flecks of sil­ver amongst the bluest of eyes

252 [2016.11.10]

tiny bits of green forest sprout­ing from every breath

251 [2016.11.09]

dod­dery branch­es cast­ing shad­ows on the drapes

250 [2016.11.08]

fold­ed pink petals drift­ing down the street like paper boats

249 [2016.11.07]

a pack of chil­dren ges­tur­ing wild­ly at the tilt­ing of the moon in a dark dark park

248 [2016.11.06]

a red rib­bon snakes through her long dark hair skirt­ing the edge beyond beau­ty

247 [2016.11.05]

a child with a deflat­ed  puff of pur­ple cot­ton can­dy

246 [2016.11.04]

swift­ly silent­ly secret­ly

245 [2016.11.03]

rough­ened roots rise from grey squares of side­walk

244 [2016.11.02]

bronze bells clam­or the cacoph­o­nous awak­en­ing of the dead

243 [2016.11.01]

can­dles melt­ed off the edge of the altar like a pet­ri­fied water­fall

242 [2016.10.31]

spicy smoke pinch­es at the nose as embers glow beneath the comal toast­ing black­ened pep­pers

241 [2016.10.30]

a tired street­lamp lean­ing on an old adobe wall

240 [2016.10.29]

orange flow­ers on black pave­ment and the scent of cit­rus being cut in a woman’s small hands 

239 [2016.10.28]

gen­tle knock­ing from the carpenter’s work­shop and the pro­fan­i­ty of a rusty saw

238 [2016.10.27]

in this cup tiny bub­bles of choco­late reflect the faces around my table

237 [2016.10.26]

la abue­la de una peloti­ta azul sen­ta­do detrás pilas de tor­tillas

236 [2016.10.25]

noth­ing but a five peso coin nest­ing in her green plas­tic bowl as she tugs at my pants her but­ton like eyes star­ing up

235 [2016.10.24]

not a city ‘less it feels like a warm sweater or a hug

234 [2016.10.23]

poised sounds of ear­ly morn­ing when the garbage bell clangs

233 [2016.10.22]

wob­bling wood­en cart flecked with teal paint top­pling with wares wind­ing down the cob­bles

232 [2016.10.21]

lit­tle tri­an­gles of light fold­ing in the dark like news­pa­per boats

231 [2016.10.20]

first breath was painful and began with a tiny cry while some­where adrift in mother’s arms

230 [2016.10.19]

crys­talline dream­scapes leap­ing from things like leaves or pages or tucked away under dis­tant eye­lids

229 [2016.10.18]

shape­ly pat­terned tiles blue and grey click and echo under the heels of a well-dressed wom­an

228 [2016.10.17]

old stone build­ings on old stone streets ough­ta give as much won­der as the pyra­mids do

227 [2016.10.16]

a mir­ror paint­ed black dis­card­ed del­i­cate­ly on the curb miss­ing the sun’s reflec­tion

225 [2016.10.14]

an elgy writ­ten on an old worn tire on a dusty hill­side some­where in tijua­na

say­ing no tirar basura 

we don’t want your dead

224 [2016.10.13]

in the secret cor­ner of my smile a wrin­kle begins to creep upon my cheek

223 [2016.10.12]

the things you’re inter­est­ed in i am not inter­est­ed in but we can still be friends

222 [2016.10.11]

a bag a ball a bird a bridge all seen bold­ly betray­ing grav­i­ty

221 [2016.10.10]

i am two feet in a hole filled with water reflect­ing the world right-side-up

220 [2016.10.09]

the soft sound of the sun ris­ing

219 [2016.10.08]

with the wind comes the pink of the morn­ing

218 [2016.10.07]

warm stones purring in the sun­light

217 [2016.10.06]

a mis­shapen brown bean who teeters on the edge

216 [2016.10.05]

an itchy spot of sun­light crawl­ing up her leg

215 [2016.10.04]

peo­ple fear the water blue where they should fear the colour­less wind

214 [2016.10.03]

a blue-breast­ed bird claim­ing its per­ch on the hind­side of a relaxed red horse

213 [2016.10.02]

mod­est hands search­ing for a place to rest

212 [2016.10.01]

tripe hides in soup wait­ing for lucky mouth

211 [2016.09.30]

the clouds above the val­ley ring­ing them­selves dry like white wet tow­els

210 [2016.09.29]

a cloud rest­ing on the shoul­der of a moun­tain

209 [2016.09.28]

a sil­ver wrap­per tum­bles across the cob­ble­stone find­ing its home in a rain fed pud­dle

208 [2016.09.27]

a tiny shrub sprout­ing from the church spire lean­ing with the wind

207 [2016.09.26]

every­thing is geom­e­try where the tri­an­gle trees sit on the hori­zon yel­low and green

206 [2016.09.25]

streets like an archive of hand paint­ed signs and antique pedes­tri­ans

205 [2016.09.24]

green can­is­ters of gas clang­ing togeth­er on the back of a rick­ety white truck

204 [2016.09.23]

words that are woven togeth­er like an old fray­ing rug

203 [2016.09.22]

the­se tiny grey peb­bles which add tex­ture and sound to the street

202 [2016.09.21]

an obtuse tele­vi­sion set peel­ing itself from the wall as the foot­ball game mules on

201 [2016.09.20]

tall azu­ce­nas wrapped in a scarf white and pop­corn yel­low

200 [2016.09.19]

sun­less days spent in white-walled rooms 

199 [2016.09.18]

after the rain the desert is an emer­ald green

198 [2016.09.17]

moss flows from the mouth of the shiv­er­ing cave

197 [2016.09.16]

ornate tiles yel­low and blue sur­round the hearth of the kitchen 

196 [2016.09.15]

ornary moun­tains grey­ing like old men on a park bench

195 [2016.09.14]

tree like obelisk black­ened and with­out life 

194 [2016.09.13]

the wind folds itself qui­et­ly through the streets meet­ing with fresh laun­dry atop hous­es 

193 [2016.09.12]

a square cab­in sits atop stilts above the green algae cov­ered rocks

192 [2016.09.11]

an emp­ty blue robin’s egg adds con­cep­tu­al depth to her lone­ly brown nest

191 [2016.09.10]

she fol­lows an idea as a kit­ten chas­es a ball of yarn

190 [2016.09.09]

a low sodi­um art crit­ic mono­syl­lab­i­cal­ly pon­tif­i­cat­ing poo poo poo

189 [2016.09.08]

a red car rolls between the trem­bling hous­es

188 [2016.09.07]

one must debate the triv­ial dull­ness of nature

187 [2016.09.06]

the sort of geo­met­ric plea­sure one can only get from eat­ing a fresh crois­sant

186 [2016.09.05]

stone arch­es that seem to trace the path of a red rub­ber ball bounc­ing beau­ti­ful­ly

185 [2016.09.04]

sim­plic­i­ty is vacant in the flow­er­ing fields of infinite nature

184 [2016.09.03]

an anthol­o­gy of sounds as i sit to con­tem­plate silence

183 [2016.09.02]

tim­bre of the fray as nature feels the city is com­ing

182 [2016.09.01]

i am posi­tioned amongst extra­ne­ous thoughts 

181 [2016.08.31]

fold­ed paper beneath the tables foot evening out the earth below

180 [2016.08.30]

___a ship r u n  a  g  r  o  u  n d~~~~~~~

179 [2016.08.29]

the way the sky grafts itself upon the small­est bod­ies of water

178 [2016.08.28]

autumn slips in like a minor in a bar

176 [2016.08.26]

thin chat­ter rat­tles the hall­ways of rumour

175 [2016.08.25]

blush­ing moon

174 [2016.08.24]


173 [2016.08.23]

signs of the old city bleed­ing through the side­walk cracks

172 [2016.08.22]

five-thir­ty in the morn­ing breath like the exhaust of an old limp­ing buick

171 [2016.08.21]

feet and legs tan­gle beneath sequins churn­ing the dance floor a glossy but­ter

170 [2016.08.20]

one tree sways while the oth­er protests the wind

169 [2016.08.19]

sel­dom the wind ever soft­er as it grooms the lakes face

168 [2016.08.18]

the forest creeps slow­ly up the moun­tain

167 [2016.08.17]

val­ley cac­tus sway­ing as if drap­ing towards the cloudy sky

166 [2016.08.16]

the way the yel­low­ing trees peek over the tall white wall

165 [2016.08.15]

a pyrotech­nic gaze as stars burn holes through the clouds

164 [2016.08.14]

they sit in class
skulls no longer itchy


163 [2016.08.13]

a tijua­nense pack of dogs where the ticks con­gre­gate

162 [2016.08.12]

we slept rolled up in the cos­mos on the wake of a neb­u­la

161 [2016.08.11]

the day is done when words turn to paint our dreams

160 [2016.08.10]


159 [2016.08.09]

tiny words might bring us warmth

158 [2016.08.08]

if there were such a thing as silence we wouldn’t have ascribed time a sound

157 [2016.08.07]

tiny lit­tle poem all done up with ruby red rib­bon

156 [2016.08.06]

we find warmth in the soil we bury our dead in

155 [2016.08.05]

sequen bursts in a pur­ple sky as a saint sits upon his alter

154 [2016.08.04]

glean what you might from your tele­vi­sion in that dark room

153 [2016.08.03]

an aban­doned sock drink­ing rain­wa­ter in the mid­dle of the road

152 [2016.08.02]

august has a mind of its own

151 [2016.08.01]

she paint­ed her room to look like the sky but now she is lost in thought

150 [2016.07.31]

the day is pass­ing and the sun is an unpeeled orange

149 [2016.07.30]

the geom­e­try of a news­pa­per fold­ed curi­ous­ly on her lap

148 [2016.07.29]

bal­let of shad­ows as birds fly above

147 [2016.07.28]

her only cam­ou­flage is a false smile

146 [2016.07.27]

a dis­obe­di­ent beach chair gives way to a hefty man as the birds seem to laugh

145 [2016.07.26]

just a frag­ment of the puppy’s wish­es left between her teeth

144 [2016.07.25]

two tin cans mar­ried by string in an old box under the wood­en stairs

143 [2016.07.24]

some­thing asun­der the soft hori­zon gaz­ing celes­tial in the shad­ow of a star 

142 [2016.07.23]

at the heel of spring anoth­er sea­son and the moon ego­tis­ti­cal­ly float­ing above

141 [2016.07.22]

there is a math­e­mat­ics of inde­ci­sion glow­ing in its own deci­sive­ness 

140 [2016.07.21]

don’t dare search for the begin­ning of this thought

139 [2016.07.20]

the way tech­nol­o­gy reflects a change in poet­ry

138 [2016.07.19]

an intro­spec­tive cac­tus shaped like a heart

137 [2016.07.18]

the way that trees shake hands beneath the dirt

136 [2016.07.17]

poor vis­i­bil­i­ty yield to oncom­ing traf­fic

135 [2016.07.16]

i n v e r s i o n    o r    i n v e n t i o n    o r    i n ( t e r ) v e n t i o n

134 [2016.07.15]

a pau­per and his paper pock­ets a por­trait of the streets

133 [2016.07.14]

t i l t e d   p r o s e

132 [2016.07.13]

geom­e­try that lacks expres­sion like a straight line

131 [2016.07.12]

this is a poem that feels square and awk­ward in the mouth

130 [2016.07.11]

a pineap­ple spins atop a dancers head her dress the licks of a sacred flame 

129 [2016.07.10]

bar­co de papel en una pradera per­di­do bajo un cielo per­di­do

128 [2016.07.09]

the way the­se moun­tains hide such towns among the gem-like stars

127 [2016.07.08]

appro­pri­a­tion appor­ta­tion appari­tion 

126 [2016.07.07]

a grand­fa­ther whose lan­guage could bring a flow­er to life

125 [2016.07.06]

mol­e­c­u­lar jig­gling as they dance through the night

124 [2016.07.05]

tired tooth grasps the mean­ing of lone­li­ness among peers

123 [2016.07.04]

brass tuba like buddha’s bel­ly and anoth­er lesson in humil­i­ty

122 [2016.07.03]

light­ning splits and sours the dry air

121 [2016.07.02]

poly­syl­lab­ic polyamory

120 [2016.07.01]

a lone­ly trum­pet strung to the night singing an incan­des­cent tune in the shape of the moon

119 [2016.06.30]

green olive adrift in a sea of piney gin

118 [2016.06.29]

lan­guage like a well worn tweed jack­et

117 [2016.06.28]

a sin­gle line to catch a fish

116 [2016.06.27]

flecks of light express them­selves on the kitchen floor

115 [2016.06.26]

in a val­ley where it is always autumn an apple pie sits on a win­dowsill exhal­ing its caramel breath

114 [2016.06.25]

file under file under

113 [2016.06.24]

at the train sta­tion green weeds hug the rust­ing tracks

112 [2016.06.23]

a room with­out win­dows must be paint­ed white

111 [2016.06.22]

an old sign bent at the knees show­ing its will for retire­ment

110 [2016.06.21]

three sil­ver shells express their lazi­ness vacant­ly on a beach

109 [2016.06.20]

sprout or spring or sprig of thyme rest­ing patient­ly between the lips and nose

108 [2016.06.19]

a life carved out of soft angles

107 [2016.06.18]

c  o  n  t  e  x  i  t  s    e  v  e  r  y  t  h  i  n g

106 [2016.06.17]

hum­ble as cab­bage alone in a gar­den

105 [2016.06.16]

yolk of palm buddha’s charm

104 [2016.06.15]

drift­ing sky falling upon a green val­ley and a gold­en city

103 [2016.06.14]

a beau­ti­ful sil­hou­et­te har­vests desire behind thin drap­ing white cot­ton

102 [2016.06.13]

thir­teen shad­ows twist togeth­er on the wall like a cool grey orgy

101 [2016.06.12]

nav­i­gate father to father the way a hair­line is passed on

100 [2016.06.11]

an emp­ty room all but for a pais­ley accent­ed chair with three legs

099 [2016.06.10]

aboard the first sail­ing scraps of con­scious­ness scrapped from the minds floor

098 [2016.06.09]

a sin­gle gold­en cher­ry pit casts a long shad­ow in the shape of a flow­er

097 [2016.06.08]

beneath a warm crust sweet molten apples and cin­na­mon escape to per­fume the air 

096 [2016.06.07]

sleepy moth­er feed­ing her child the future in past tense

095 [2016.06.06]

silent pink flow­ers pro­tect the shyest cac­tus on the hill­side beside the small white house 

094 [2016.06.05]

a tiny stain makes an island in the sea of her bright white dress

093 [2016.06.04]

tiny snake makes a ball or may­be a green jew­el but beware the ven­om

092 [2016.06.03]

curi­ous colours bleed from beneath an old white bug.

091 [2016.06.02]

a sin­gle thought expres­sive­ly expands the uni­verse

090 [2016.06.01]

the rain falls in impos­si­ble lines

089 [2016.05.31]

a comal the shape of the sun roast­ing sunday’s pep­pers

088 [2016.05.30]

when she splits this gourd in half she fills it with old spir­it and returns to call it a jícara

087 [2016.05.29]

a thou­sand pho­tographs as an old wom­an hawks woven bas­kets the colour of the saints some­where out of frame 

086 [2016.05.28]

a child plays the accor­dion beside her father cov­ered in smoke

085 [2016.05.27]

paper dress­es dance here below bas­kets of trop­i­cal fruit

084 [2016.05.26]

vibrant flow­ers paint pink shad­ows on the stone wall

083 [2016.05.25]

rocks along the creek bed smooth as an artists palms

082 [2016.05.24]

dusty feet car­ry the road back home

081 [2016.05.23]

before light­ning a strange silence and then the thun­der rolls out like a red car­pet

080 [2016.05.22]

a lone­ly nest adorned with a robin’s egg bright as the adri­at­ic blue 

079 [2016.05.21]

frothy fore s  i   g    h t
as gaz­ing through a fog­gy win­dow

078 [2016.05.20]

three cac­tus­es stand­ing in a row like green tomb­stones

077 [2016.05.19]

beguil­ing bird pluck­ing and groom­ing his plume to song

076 [2016.05.18]

in the tin­der lit sky attached to a child some­where below is a blue kite drift­ing

075 [2016.05.17]

i’ve found a pile of sticks
set aside smart­ly
to burn on a lat­er date

074 [2016.05.16]

her eyes are like two stray flecks of con­fet­ti on cool grey con­crete

073 [2016.05.15]

a large field of tall grass sur­rounds a crick­et chirp­ing slen­der­ly

072 [2016.05.14]

dense rain pool­ing on the street around cold wet feet

071 [2016.05.13]

brass bells and a mari­achi with a bro­ken bow under the grey-blue sky

070 [2016.05.12]

sup­ple lines as in a poem for her

069 [2016.05.11]

fist in ball in pock­et or hand

068 [2016.05.10]

the meta­physics of shells and oth­er places to hide our secrets in

067 [2016.05.09]

foot­steps echo through the street stir­ring up a cho­rus of dogs

066 [2016.05.08]

a sad bal­loon in the hand of a child fight­ing again­st grav­i­ty

065 [2016.05.07]

a black umbrel­la drifts down the street hold­ing up an old wom­an

064 [2016.05.07]

an old sock on the road miss­ing its own­er

063 [2016.05.06]

a forest is just a bunch of trees or a good place to hide

062 [2016.05.05]

a bro­ken clay teacup return­ing to the earth in the rain

061 [2016.05.04]

she sleeps on the couch curled up like a lit­tle com­ma

060 [2016.05.03]


on a dusty old book

she left me to read

059 [2016.05.02]

an aper­tured mouth with light pour­ing out

058 [2016.05.01]

sliv­er of moon like a sick­le miss­ing its ham­mer

057 [2016.04.30]

a bird like a ball stuck in a tree

056 [2016.04.29]

a sleepy tree reach­ing for water

055 [2016.04.28]

pati­na sky wrinkly with clouds

054 [2016.04.27]

twen­ty-sev­en med­i­tate as cul­ti­vat­ed rows of spruce and pine

053 [2016.04.26]

danc­ing beneath the wet white moon

052 [2016.04.25]

a metaphor stuck in one’s mind like bub­ble gum in a child’s hair 

051 [2016.04.24]

unearth­ly lumi­nes­cence eyes green­er than the sea 

050 [2016.04.23]

secrets hiber­nate between her long brown fin­gers

049 [2016.04.22]

dust gath­ers on the floor where it meets our black­ened feet

048 [2016.04.21]

flow­ers like papier-mâché on the cement after the rain 

047 [2016.04.20]

pinkly droop­ing sky­line spilling behind a moun­tain­ous hori­zon

046 [2016.04.19]

out from the light leapt a tiny pol­ished herd of brass

045 [2016.04.18]

way­far­ing crea­tures who kiss good­bye in the dark

044 [2016.04.17]

a ques­tion­ing eye­brow emerg­ing in the shape of the gold­en ratio

043 [2016.04.16]

after the rain fell sweet sour and sog­gy

042 [2016.04.15]

a spoon is where van­i­ty meets the cere­al bowl

041 [2016.04.14]

a fork is an exten­sion of one’s per­son­al­i­ty

040 [2016.04.13]

all but train tracks left to dec­o­rate the hum­drum coun­tryside 

038 [2016.04.11]

absurd fruit dan­gling blunt in the brush

037 [2016.04.10]

way­ward stream seems to almost flow uphill

036 [2016.04.09]

p u s h e d      a   w     a y 

035 [2016.04.08]

a spirit­ed dia­logue on the weath­er over­heard on a bus some­where between yawns 

034 [2016.04.07]

danc­ing where mem­o­ry becomes ocean spray

033 [2016.04.06]

just the right embouchure for swill­ing cof­fee

032 [2016.04.05]

from the dank dark din erupts the shim­mer­ing uni­verse

031 [2016.04.04]


030 [2016.04.03]

sim­ple taco
a sacred geom­e­try

029 [2016.04.02]

pink hibis­cus dry­ing on white linen under the warm sun 

028 [2016.04.01]

colour­ful laun­dry strung along the alley­way scent­ing the breeze like a field of laven­der

027 [2016.03.30]

a crooked church who brings colour back to the fad­ing town­ship

026 [2016.03.29]

des­ti­tute dog­gy drool­ing upon the sun­l­it side­walk

025 [2016.03.28]

a bird with one good leg pun­ished with the thought of flight 

024 [2016.03.27]

a poem read with indif­fer­ence on a park bench some­where deep in the city

023 [2016.03.26]

the city shakes as if caused by the foot­fall of her pedes­tri­ans

022 [2016.03.25]

a shoe with­out a sole like a man with­out his fish

021 [2016.03.24]

sense is a hat to wear del­i­cate­ly as if on race day 

020 [2016.03.23]

from the under­side of the moun­tain groan­ing a plume of smoke

019 [2016.03.22]

a grey moon enveloped by the warm night sky

018 [2016.03.21]

a palm bent at the knees as if in prayer

017 [2016.03.20]

a thought frozen in the stag­nan­cy of inde­ci­sion

016 [2016.03.19]

the way her breath rolls out like a song in the night

015 [2016.03.18]

no city with­out garbage

014 [2016.03.17]

in still water a clean green mem­o­ry adrift the black­ness

013 [2016.03.16]

the rotund blue sky hang­ing effort­less­ly or float­ing away like a dan­de­lion fluff in the wind

012 [2015.03.15]

sneak­ers chirp like lit­tle birds on the glossy hard­wood floor

011 [2016.03.14]

a child on the cor­ner with a weep­ing accor­dion under the tall street lights

010 [2016.03.13]

bone mila­gros buried in the ground beneath a young palm where a young wom­an reads a book in the shade

009 [2016.03.12]

politi­cians would like for you to think of them as human too

008 [2016.03.11]

postage applied appro­pri­ate­ly yet still deliv­ery delayed

007 [2016.03.10]










006 [2015.03.09]

mi corazón es un sonido que proviene de las nubes

005 [2016.03.08]

a soft space warm in the sun curling up snug like the pages of an old book

004 [2016.03.07]

an old pine unfurls her shad­ow upon the stone square

003 [2016.03.06]

in a dress
like a pin­wheel
she is sweet­er than can­dy

002 [2016.03.05]

a  l i n e  t o  c o n s i d e r  g e n t l y  {o r}  t o  r e s t  o u r  m o r a l i t y  u p o n

001 [2016.03.04]

 begin­nings as soft as the the sun search­ing for a new day