A fantastic reading at Ken Sanders Rare Books down in Salt Lake. A delicious audience ranging from stoic cowboys to pierced ruffians, from desert rats to yoga-heads. “This Poem” seemed to be the crowd favorite with many asking if it was published anywhere. … I can’t imagine a typical poetry journal ever wanting it, and am not sure if I would include it in a book; however, it definitely will be on the CD I’m hoping to record soon.
After the gig, back to Ken’s fantastic Forest House, a magical ship rising above the ocean of steel, brick and glass of SLC, riding the crest of the Wasatch Fault. Delightful violations of Morman Law in cold brown bottles. Tripping over stacks of great books and an endless feast of artwork on every wall.
In the morning, with strong coffee and a wide-eyed window. Watching clouds peeling away from the mountain slopes like burnt skin. leaving scars of luxury homes and radio towers. A brooding darkness pouring in from over the lake, swallowing the buildings of downtown one by one. A goshawk takes refuge in the backyard, silencing all other birds.