the errant double-proof

I am born again a pie pan

in the kitchen of a master baker

now nauseated by the baking

for the memories it recalls.

Virgin enamel

shines sliding down my sides

and reflects promises of pastries 

my master refuses to stomach.

Drifts of butter blending

with lard, fine salt and spice

will never burn in my nose

for scorching my artisan

when he catches them unexpected

in just the right slice of his mind

as he retreats to his mother,

to her delicate craft of icing,

stippling resplendent fantasies

up confectionary tiers

or the savory fumblings of his father

who dredged tenderloins in sugar

instead of prescribed flour

to the delight of the dawning chef

discovering his tooth.

The pains folded into instants ensure

that the sweet fond of his fats

will never brown in me

and only dust will dust my edges.

I am a useless gift,

a token of talent resigned,

relegated to the future,

estate-saled to an amateur

who will never taste the potential

I was promised.

ratchet lake

For years the dry lake rusted,

eighty frustrated acres 

pitching tantrums in our backyard,

throwing up trees where we’d cleared,

mocking our attempts to scape the land.

We plinked water balloons in the bed

with a .22, teasing ourselves,

as one gallon by one

spilled to disappear,

whiling the time elegizing

l’esprit qui passe.  

Or something else entirely—

a capacity.

We’d drive over new trees

not just to kill them

but to fuck them up,

to maintain we were more than nature.

All in the name of recreation.

This was the indicative illustration

at the top of a clean page

in a very old book, 

the words and the world

were ours now to speak.

We scraped our plans and mockups

and cleared the thrown-up trees,

transmuted the earth

from sponge to occlusion;

reinvested inheritance

into our legacy

and counted interest 

not yet returned.

Weirs diverted backflow

for bounties of mountain laurel

and geese alighted to our delight;

this ratchet lake lived.

Sun cresting the power lines,

we saw the light on the lake

for a breath of a moment

before the lenders came and took it,

dragging us from its banks.

arden submission posters

I made the following posters for Arden 2012.  

Click to enlarge.

fiction submissions

art submissions (co-credit: Joshua Jarrett and Ashton Sunseri)

non-fiction submissions

poetry submissions (co-credit: Vanessa Escobar)

james travis restoration

my great-great-grandfather

west lake (demo)

45 record, 33 speed

Tiny scratch on the motorcycle gas tank.

I am caught on that insubstantial score 
that skips the record back—

Might as well face it 
might as well face it 
might as well face

the collection sewn together
with needles and handlebars
and parkin sons and bloodlessorders 
and aqua nets of age that catch all 
and never lose their hold.

This scratch joins the loop,
jarring at the start, jagged at the end
across one thousand eight hundred twenty five and two 
plays alike in the same,
the same, the same,
the same;

I watch the best go down,
the pure, the strong, the virtuous; 
slow, in a drag,

the world purges its favorites.

There’s a tiny scratch in every thing. 
Every surface,
every tank
wears an inscrutable flaw,
hidden to all but the eye 
fixed on the fissure
that some giant
used for a toehold
to kickstart his ascent,
listening for the right tune to ride.