This has long been one of my favorite songs. I don't understand most of the lyrics, but the musical quality of the words themselves are intoxicating.


The Smallest Bones

Our world has marrow, deep
down, past dirt and rock, past
rivers and lakes of fire,

and there is a cancer,
and even the smallest
bone has been infected.

The sludge is seeping through
to rupture the surface.

And we cannot go back.

This is based off of the Castanets song “The Smallest Bones.”

Something Together

I wonder why music has always appealed.

Why from just after time, rhythm and

melody have entranced and befuddled;

Plato to Zwigli; Aristotle to

everyone else.

Something about that sharp

split of air by the long-sustained violin,

or the flute pulsing to breath-beat, veering

off towards separation.



families wailing, but wailing

together, in unison or harmony.


This was quick and (very) dirty. It is heading back towards the dangerous free for all that characterized my early college poems.

Ancient Joy

To feel your breath in your fingers, as once

I read it, is to receive instant feedback,

immediate expression of your art;

to hold in your hands, tunes older than you.

And out the back door with the punters.

All those who don’t understand this joy.


This ancient joy.


A little St. Patrick’s Day poem, courtesy of the five hour gig I played with Emerald Road. I don’t really want you all out the back door, don’t worry. Tongue in cheek and all that.