BOOK RELEASE UPDATE
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In the meantime, I had planned to share another sample poem.
Bird Bones
Seven 12,000-year-old flutes
were found in the Hula Valley,
carved from the wing bones
of teal and coot, unearthed along
with hundreds of other bones,
an avian Golgotha, as if the
archaeologists had been assigned
an impossible task by a king or a god:
Among these bones, you must find
the seven that still sing.
Bones were a popular prehistoric
material. We have found fish hooks
and harpoons, pendants and
ornaments, but by far, the favorite
subject of Neolithic artisans was
animals. Of course it was—
in those early days of agriculture,
when we were still trying to wrestle
obedience from boar and aurochs,
when we still lived cheek-and-jowl
with the things we killed or could be
killed by, when your falcon returning
empty-clawed meant going to bed
hungry, we fashioned our bone
talismans, wore them on a string
around our necks.
The flutes still bear microscopic
evidence of having been used. Over
twelve millennia ago, humans put
these instruments to their lips and
blew, entire sagas still lingering in
teeth marks and phantom spit.
Now, scientists have replicated the
flutes. When played, they emit a high
screech. They may have been used
for music, but mainly, they were
thought to be early duck calls,
emulating kestrel and sparrowhawk—
bird bones to catch birds. That feels
mythic, too, and indeed, scientists
wonder if this wasn’t a way to try
and commune with those creatures of
the sky. Raptor totem, we sing,
ave, ave, ave.
Across the ages, we have distanced
ourselves from such bonds. Yet,
when migration season comes round
again, we plan to return to the valley
to test out our version of the aerophones,
to see if the old magic still holds,
to see if we can draw the birds to us,
to put bone to our lips and blow.
If the flute makers could see these
skies now, if they could see hear how
silent the forests and marshes have become—
Soon, there will be nothing but
decoys and recordings.
Soon, the echoes will have faded,
and there will be nothing left to us
but our pale imitations, a memory of song, a dream of flight.
PUBLICATIONS
were found in the Hula Valley,
carved from the wing bones
of teal and coot, unearthed along
with hundreds of other bones,
an avian Golgotha, as if the
archaeologists had been assigned
an impossible task by a king or a god:
Among these bones, you must find
the seven that still sing.
Bones were a popular prehistoric
material. We have found fish hooks
and harpoons, pendants and
ornaments, but by far, the favorite
subject of Neolithic artisans was
animals. Of course it was—
in those early days of agriculture,
when we were still trying to wrestle
obedience from boar and aurochs,
when we still lived cheek-and-jowl
with the things we killed or could be
killed by, when your falcon returning
empty-clawed meant going to bed
hungry, we fashioned our bone
talismans, wore them on a string
around our necks.
The flutes still bear microscopic
evidence of having been used. Over
twelve millennia ago, humans put
these instruments to their lips and
blew, entire sagas still lingering in
teeth marks and phantom spit.
Now, scientists have replicated the
flutes. When played, they emit a high
screech. They may have been used
for music, but mainly, they were
thought to be early duck calls,
emulating kestrel and sparrowhawk—
bird bones to catch birds. That feels
mythic, too, and indeed, scientists
wonder if this wasn’t a way to try
and commune with those creatures of
the sky. Raptor totem, we sing,
ave, ave, ave.
Across the ages, we have distanced
ourselves from such bonds. Yet,
when migration season comes round
again, we plan to return to the valley
to test out our version of the aerophones,
to see if the old magic still holds,
to see if we can draw the birds to us,
to put bone to our lips and blow.
If the flute makers could see these
skies now, if they could see hear how
silent the forests and marshes have become—
Soon, there will be nothing but
decoys and recordings.
Soon, the echoes will have faded,
and there will be nothing left to us
but our pale imitations, a memory of song, a dream of flight.
PUBLICATIONS
“Ablaze,” appeared in the Woodside Review.
"Gargoyle Lover,” appeared in Cajun Mutt Press. Many thanks to editor James Dennis Casey IV.
My prose-poem, “The Turner Doomsday Video,” is in the 2025 Central Texas Writers Anthology: Beyond Gods and Religion. It's now available as an ebook or in paperback.
APPEARANCES
APPEARANCES
Earlier this month, I was a featured reader at the Saturday Literary Salon with Lesley Constable and Mimi German. Many thanks to host Dane Ince.
