A Poem by Dan Raphael

Phototarian Moon

aware of the dark body , a gelatin shadow ‘mong lights sporadically sourced
like stars with their backs to us, like squirrels w/ white laser eyes
occasionally a tree exhales, occasionally too many branches
for anything to fly through, not enough leaves to empty rains pockets

I smell lemon though its january
butterflies daylight at 1AM
forest of brownian dancers clothed in moss & unraveled flight

the wind speaks the cutesy voice we use for infants & kittens

how 5 inches changes everything—half a head, gravitic multiplication,
another tree without tracks, a banana skin filed with blazing butter light
faster than its own name in a thunderstorm of adjectives
open the flesh to free the salt– last week the clouds were celibateO

tomorrow begins in lush green smog
hunkering into an afternoon brown I wish my skin was
lunar rain brining another night on the grill

Since moving to Portland in 1977, Dan Raphael has been active in the poetry community as poet, performer, editor, and reading arranger.

A Poem from Dan Raphael

Drunk on Bacon
by Dan Raphael

sitting in a claustrophobic, slat-sided shed for several days
in a world of clotted smoke
where meat falls like rain
no one dies    no one inhales     no one churns
to love is to have whenever the appetite

pigs are born small
trees are smaller than grass but singularly thicker
from sun to fire
        fire retards time
when the sun goes out our clocks will surrender to gravity
my wrist is a video portal
since i am so many places its always breakfast somewhere,
always the first drink of the day

when i smell myself approaching, swallowing lit matches, stealing firewood
my flame will never stop
every night a new tree falls, three more sprout
when stars turn green they’re moving sideways